El Camino Real

21 Oct

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Have you ever been walking,

walking

so dry

in a desert of self-devotion,

wandering

in the hot morning,

under a sun

which lies like a searing ochre blanket,

a low sky of loneliness,

and wondered

how it rose to glare upon

your burnt parched heart,

still a purple veined heaving

beneath a tight

veneer of crust and air dried scar?

Have you ever sat

in a sunny spring café

watching,

watching the slow dancing love of youth

at a corner table

covered in white cloth and wine

wondering,

wondering how you slowly became

the widow of Desire,

bereaved of your limbs and legs

and the thrust of belly to bones

with an aching emptiness

between your thighs

like an open grave

awaiting the last pulsing gasp

of Passion?

Have you ever watched the door

of your beloved’s eye

close

behind a wooden stare,

locking the soul out of a space

into which you once reclined

like a sleeping child,

arms askance,

leg lifted to one side,

a little lovely dreaming Krishna

among stars of unconsciousness?

Or have you always found

a hungry smile,

a beautiful lip,

a curving side

to taste,

as if a tree from

the garden called Love

was ever dripping

outside your door,

twig-full of tender

wet globes

bruise ready under

thin skin,

their trembling sweetness

seconds from bursting

in an endless cycle

of ripening to

pluck,

devour,

belch,

begin again?

The wise ones say

one cannot know how sweet water can be

unless he has tasted the sand

of absence,

walked in dry drifts

through the desert of his longing

until his cracked mouth

has found her face

full of smiling tears,

ready to offer

the first sips

of Paradise.

Pilgrim,

carino mio,

the heavy cup

of my heart holds life

you have not earned

the tongue

to taste,

or the mouth,

to drink.

This blessed hell,

a camino real

you have not

yet the feet

to trod.

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