I'd always preserved certain moments,
certain feelings,
from the sweeping microscope of my pen.
Who needs childish words after all to hold
the moment still and pin it on display,
smushing the Inexpressible into a finite object?
When I could close my eyes
and hold your hands in a never-ending
carousel?

But now that what we've had--yes, had--
sits still collecting dust
in my mind's closet,
hidden behind a multitude of thick coats,
I’ll now probe through the dusty coats,
for there is no moment to enjoy now, is there?

So now, let me begin.

But my pen comes up empty,
no fish hanging at the end;
something is stealing my fish,
warning me in neon letters:
Do not awaken, not again;
Not the slumbering beast of Passion
That fed on:
the ropes around my heart that drew me only to you,
and the possessive ropes that pulled you only to me,
and the illicit black lights that lit up
our hands and the breath between our faces,
and the tumultuous riot that threatened to
leak through our lips, the intense stares,
that all inevitably began when,
already our souls in perfect fit,
I saw you brushing your hair in the mirror
And I had to look away.

—but finally the secretive trysts,
perpetual-nagging questions,
prayers and tears added wearily up to
the quiet clasp
before the Letting Go.


Oh…nuestra amor pasado:
Our love past
by so quickly—
forgive this frail attempt to reach out
and catch something.