Your silence is the language of the waiting woman. You search for a name. A voice that sprouts and does not break. You rummage in your lover’s dream and, with sickly hands, snatch fruits from the poppy. On your lips, black seeds recall the horseflies that swarm awaiting their females. Bit by bit, your body temperature condenses; over your language, downpour is unleashed.
The tongue forks. It speaks of rain and in the desert grows a poppy. From its petals, the tea to soothe the cold, the hunger.
I fear to name the sand, to pour the wine in the wrong glass. Pronounce the thirst might just be sweeter, to interrupt the flight of dragonflies towards your eyes,
wounded by my eyes.
But it is an intent what cracks inside me.
While I await
of the precipice I will be.