x

and i can’t fathom christ,

and where he’s heading, and why he started,

but still, in a separate compartment,

i pour the savour of the hall,

the conflict between wall x and door y,

we, inside, waiting

for the waves of drought to come

at last. In easter,

i open the wound of christ, sneak

a piece of our summer, a penny

in the fountain, let it

be revived

sophie, first, it’s the first time

i sharpen your name, or at least

the first time it’s removed

from the corner that camouflages

the years were it wasn’t about

catching our breaths

every december

at an addict’s bus stop

sophie, i lost count of the nights

in that kitchen, wandering barefoot

into the ice of the thin month,

another month in the neighbourhood

of tired gardens, forged lamps that close

at nine. sophie, first, what i told you

on the ride back to your life,

when i was already a guest in what you knew,

was close to what we had lost

again i’ve lost the thread, tie my feet

with these smells of street dinners,

stuck between two avenues, waiting

for midnight to drop and catch

up with terrors, over again,

sophie, but you’re older,

and though jesus is a myth,

the grace of my misery

more real than a man, to be anywhere,

i pray, but where i’m heading

when i choose south.

x

x

A. Menaer writes somewhere in the heart of South America