Sergio Ortiz is a poet who struggles with Bipolar and Borderline Personality Disorder
the uncomfortable night
of your fortified city.
The long creak
of the catwalk is lost
amid the shouts of stevedores
I find your labyrinth.
You talk to me
about the fleeting language
of a broken clock, the wings
of your Moroccan city,
the life of its cobblestones,
when suddenly you become
the quiet rage, the trembling
conversation of doubts:
vigor of your long seductive thighs.
We got there late. Me to your dream
and you to my best hour, merman hidden
in the cornfields of my body. Later
we lost sight of each other amid the tumult
of adolescence. We broke up, widowed
before the marriage ever consummated.
Fifteen years later we saw each other,
me the bard, you the juris doctor.
An avalanche of love made me call you
the next day. What superhuman beast
(perhaps accumulated courage) possessed
my body, what lie? What did I say my Troy,
my Caesar, my White Bull, that made you
look my way. I can’t remember,
but out of the sea inside my chest, my abyss,
primitive animals emerged singing:
purple rain, purple rain…
On a whitewashed wall in the fortified city of your body
I come to you slowly. You say something I don't understand. You laugh. Write your name on my abdomen. I walk from the edge of my body to yours. Sleepwalkers like us don't distinguish between reality and desire. To us reality is wider, more tangible, more corporal. It’s a garden in the bedroom, a thick weave of braided hair, an endless hieroglyph tangled in our legs, and rarely can we find someone to decipher, read, or write it on our bodies.