Esther Muñoz Sánchez
Hidden Winter
We believed ourselves to be the protagonists of
The Lovers in the Lilacs,
not noticing the painting on which we
were laying on had been cracking for an eternity.
We were disordered verses,
longing to be a song, and our
love, a winter that inhabited our ribs,
was hidden in a false spring.
The only thing that kept us afloat
was an icy steel anchor
in a sea of lava,
with curves congruent to those on your hips.
My knees are scarred
from falling on linoleum,
but the medicine cabinet is full of
poems that tried to heal
the storms living between our backs and chests.
Shipwreck
Your lips are painted
outside the line because you don’t
care about the fences in everyone’s minds.
Snow covers the summit,
and we dance barefoot
on the foot of the mountain.
The world floats on an iceberg of
Geneva, fleeing from a sea
of burning nails.
My favorite game
is reading the Braille of your
back, formed by the constellations of your moles.
You don’t love fast, because that would be
loving carelessly, and everything you do
is to bring yarrow to my wounds.
All sailboats dock in your bay,
and my mouth gets full of pirates,
when I tell you that I love you.
