Ragged Claws

(For M.)
The bed, still warm,
still holds on to the smell of you;
your imprint on the pillow
my holy Turin shroud,
while you, now mirror bound,
applying make-up,
remind me of self-portraits
by Rembrandt and Frans Hals.
It is funny and quite humbling to admit
that lipstick, eye-liner, mascara
bring out your beauty more convincingly
than all my poems ever will.

Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
Flocks of birds drop from the sky.
They cling to the branches of trees,
replacing fallen leaves with song,
before resuming their long journeys.
(I am tree)
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en [...]