El Amor Oscuro

Like every morning
she gets out of bed
and it’s likely she’ll fry
an egg on her lapel
like every morning
she has a dry thistle for breakfast
jam, snails, and some dog guts
she only understands what matters
some dog, a pigeon,
a goat crossing the city
alone and out of place

In her gray felt suit
and velvet coat
with a little bird
nesting in her hat
and they repeat every afternoon
like a ritual in the same park
a glance without touching
a talk without looking
sighing and then nothing
back home by ten

She, not to be outdone
rides a scooter
with a firefighter’s helmet
the hose and two Siamese
wrinkles like furrows
caked in blush
and a mouth with gaps
with the remnants of a tooth
She always carries a suitcase
where she puts what she finds
walking down the street
or rummaging through trash cans
she remains loyal to the same bench
where she loved for the first time
what year she doesn’t remember
she knows it was in spring

And they repeat every afternoon
like a ritual in the same park
a glance without touching
a talk without looking
sighing and then nothing
back home by ten

She lives with her sister
and he’s looked after by a maid
in the neighborhood they’re known
as a strange couple
he so tall and elegant
she old and toothless
with lost temples
and something odd in their gazes
that love against the people
who look at them and don’t understand
that asserts itself satisfied
that feels indifferent to them
that love in a dark bedroom
surprising and unsettling
is the invention of some crazies
hanging from the moon

And they repeat every afternoon
like a ritual in the same park
a glance without touching
a talk without looking
sighing and then nothing
back home by ten
back home by ten
back home by ten