by

Seraphina Malinche

Once a poet gifted me a book of poems
and in the margin I wrote my own.

Someday I’ll read my children a poem and tell them I once loved a poet.
How was he? They’ll ask.

Worthy of more love than I was capable of giving, I’ll reply.

But surely the few moments we shared were truthful.
I laid in his arms and he read me Paz and Neruda.
We were in love, our veritable love was alive.
As all ephemera, the time came for our love to perish.

My poet asked me not to die.
Palpitating premonition made me anxious.
It was our love that was dead, rather.

I mourn our deceased passion, our broken hearts.
We witnessed the life and demise of our unity.
My poet, my love. Our life, our death.