One by one,
sheep fall down the cliff after jumping the fence
placed by me to save them, to no avail.
The potpourri’s aroma
―charming in the evening―
becomes effluvium at three in the morning.
The glass of warm milk,
rancid aftertaste of the day,
doesn’t help either.
So I go and walk Borges’s Labyrinths.
Your face on the lagoon, not a reflection,
rather an encounter of sorts.
You look pale, washed out,
like the moon at sunset,
a blister on bruised sky,
not quite belonging,
broken into waves;
your voice lost, eaten by fish.
I see you in my nightmares;
in them, you are the one who kept counting
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,
and couldn’t find me when the count stopped.
Only the moon was there,
a garlic clove, a failed charm.
You became upset,
believed I had abandoned the game
and decided not to talk to me again.
And then I wake up,
I always wake up.
Lucía Damacela's poetry and fiction have appeared in various online and in-print journals and collections, including RiverLit, Poetry Quarterly, Cha, Mulberry Fork Review, Slippery Elm and The Binnacle. Lucia, currently living in Singapore with her family, blogs at https://notesfromlucia.wordpress.com/ and tweets at @lucyda.