AURORA
A hundred and fifty cracks
mark the walls
of the building,
covered by the washing line
that strangle
rang out blankets,
refreshing of
bleach
the mouth of the
courtyard.
I round up:
I left home
before counting them.
I’ve seen you push
a shopping cart,
plodding along,
centimeter after
centimeter.
A hundred fifty
are the meters
up to the boulangerie.
Maybe less.
And you force your
tight ankles,
holding out
to the weight
of the family.
A more than ten years
resistance,
inferable by
your green eyes:
are they still remember mine?
How many wrinkles
on the sides
of your face.
A hundred and fifty ruts
carved out into the pale
skin
appease
your flesh.
I’ve never counted:
I left home before
to slide into the crevices
of your mellow
skin.
At night,
just before dawn,
I wake up.
I think I have
the light on.
I’m waiting for you
to come
to turn it off.
Diego Astore