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tonight is the night that I love you,
tonight is the night that I miss you,
tonight is the night that I remember,
that I understand your memories, dear mother.

Through the fragrant waters vested in avian imagery,
I saw you embrace the colors of flying—hues which,
alight in their individualized sense of departure,
refulgent in their reticent clamor,
become disinclined to dispense verities;

my friend once told me of her suppositions,
concerns of an irate serenade. And
drifting like the soft whisper of flannel
the most ambrosial taste of amity,
hesitant in a tangible uneasiness of features,
she described your trials
of which I was ignorant;









in 1973 you had the airs to fall in love,
to adjust to the blooming casualties of
amorous encounters with my father.
Desperate dawns, unfathomable afternoons
of all types of insinuations;
and through the clairvoyant archetype
of your individualities,
of his individualities—
you gave him your eyes,
he gave you his nose,
then your smile, then your cheeks,
then his voice, then his mode,
-and later, said my friend,
-I came into accounts,
I knew about the ink—different
colorations, blossoming pigments
of repetitions in harmony.
a historical map of floating hues like
yellow, the profundity of blue,
verdant for the freshness of infinite
pastures and valleys.
deep purplish crimsons of humble
and ephemeral melodies.
and Violet. casting
its mellow tinge.
Violet. fear.

-one day, said my friend, I made her company.
“If you listen closely,” said your mother,
“You can hear the screech of loneliness.
Just listen and you’ll see it
gnawing on the floor. A life form on its own.”

-that night she stayed in my house,
you wouldn’t see your father for a long time.
and who knew of that horrible time machine.
sitting like a dark lonesome creature
crouched next to the stove,
taking abode in the kitchen,
swaggering about the household—
stopping to take a breath
as to continue swaggering
at temperamental intervals.
angry with itself. flustered.
alive. indescribable.
bottomless. dark. yet alive;
drinking from the nipples of fury.
and Violet. Violet, casting
its mellow tinge.
Violet. fear.
because.

you gave him your eyes,
then your smile,
then your cheeks.
and he gave you his fascination,
then his obsession,
then his arms,
then his wrists,
then his hands,
then his fists.
and you loved him still.

I once accepted my friends’ suppositions, and,
drifting like the soft whisper of the colors of flying,
I flew along with you.
just above the ocean:
-like Peter!
the air, the stars, and
all the nature was with us.
-here you can’t see the shore!
just above the ocean
ninety miles per hour,
you can see your reflection on the water:

-hold my hand!
tonight is the night that I love you,
tonight is the night that I miss you,
tonight is the night that I remember,
that I understand your memories, dear mother.





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