I Eat Poetry

This is the secret of one twilight, of how a life was wasted,
of death that invites and denies us all. The ocean was vast,
the night was marble. I heard various voices inside myself:
there was fighting. Mephisto dancing, moans and sighs,
herbs soaking, as she picked shadows. There were wounds,
and the prelude to some forgotten sorrow. There was a mature woman,
with teeth like filaments of wire, standing at the edge

of day, at the end of a sodden year, underneath casuarina trees
covered with lanterns. I confess in my shame, I met
a girl, and we drank coffee together. The less I kiss you,
the older I feel the lonelier I become. Once, I accepted
failure and sorrow, and thought that they were love. I went out,
one day, wearing brown polished shoes,

and new cotton socks. The grass in the courtyard
had turned to straw. Long ago, Chopin wrote a sad song
about the rain. The mist swirled, coins jingled, a match flared,
her cheeks were plump, that corner of the city
was full of noise. I sang. I always sing
when I'm sad. Forget my love, tomorrow I'll wake up again
back in my hotel room, alone. Everyone I love

always leaves me. This is the secret of one twilight,
without any jagged memories, or the need
to worship old legends. It was beautiful,
the sky was bright, the train sped past,
a parking official blew his whistle to remind us
of some forgotten schedule. I was sad, disappointed,
I jumped out at Tugu Station, and laughed out loud.
Full of faith, Faust was not prepared for the smile
of a young girl, a bombastic leader, a friend

who hid a wolf in his chest, for no particular
reason. Unlike those who had left their homelands behind,
I had lost very little. A leaf fell. The conversation swung
to and fro. A weak and gentle woman took off
her veil, displayed her kisses, tidied some letters,
some trivial gifts, and buried my embraces

beneath a wooden table.


from "language for a new century: contemporary poetry from the middle east, asia, and beyond