Whore of Márquez

Before the cholera
and the sores of syphilis,
our eyes met
and we knew each other’s name,
behind us only the wind
and the moon
our voyeur.

You became the usual smile
at the downtown hotel
where I slept off
my long nights
with the loneliness of faces
and arms
that could not wait.

Something had changed
after I let you invade 
my bed of cottons 
with the wordlessness
of my welcome
and after the hesitation
of your unbuttoning obliged.

But the crispness of your bills
did not sound 
like whistling,
the excitement of exiled kisses
or the frenzy of a mouth 
that could read 
the stuttering of impulses.

It was then that I began
to forget you,
the strength of your cologne 
subduing the burn of tobacco,
and your glance 
quick at knowing,
but never your tongue.

In bed while waiting
for the saddest song
of angels,
I thought of your thumb
probing the crimson of my lips
you said were bows
and also plums.

Your hands sure about creases
and wet folds
nudged me to remember
the clean color of your shirt,
the softness of the pillow,
and the texture of the linen
that dried your saliva.

I lived in the past
to recall that evening
on the cozy veranda
where we stood wondering
about the orchids
masking the strange odor
of dead wood.

This chronicle I wrote
to thank the man
who embraced the skin
that had fermented like olives
and who gave words
to the melancholia
of a whore.

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