Come with me, I said, and no one knew
where, or how my body ached,
no carnations or barcaroles for me,
only a desire that you had opened.
I said it again: Come with me,
and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth
or the blood that rose in the silence.
That is why, when I heard your voice say
I am coming, it was as if you had let loose
the grief, the love, the fury of a cork-trapped wine
that geysers flooding from deep in its vault:
in my mouth I felt the taste of fire again,
of blood and carnations, of salt and drops of rain.
memoryhouse 