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From
Reading Room/8:
Time Drains
Nuria Amat
Back
to the issue 8 page
I didn’t write you a love poem,
loving you as I did,
I wondered if living for you
meant turning a cheek to your strangeness,
nor did I get the meaning of life right,
like a plant trained to breathe
the thin air from your letters,
I drank silences of pain
to loosen the knot you left,
fearing I’d mistake my voice
for the blank language of your disdain,
I scorned the hand of wrath,
and postponed till now an open threat.
But time drains,
it rains on exotic isles,
I bid my last goodbyes to a meeting,
I take a sheet of paper,
tread hard on snow,
and write you in a half-spoken rant,
there’s no moment left,
even oblivion puts its passion
in this head-stone.
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