I have invited this summer for you
The grassland of your chest has withered.
You never write to me these days.
In those letters of yours that I preserved
the tears boil over.
My body is tender and limp
as if it needs to be wrapped around
with many hands.
In this heat-struck street
no one is about, except the postman
with his breath-catching letters
and that girl who has forgotten
her childhood secrets.
This heat, which can swallow
whole rivers in a single gulp,
comes and sits silently, like a bird,
awakening the rocks and hills.
Children refuse to play in the sun
which rises each day steeped in blood.
A telephone rings, calling incessantly
from an empty house.
Women’s eyes float through smoke.
The handbag, where I placed, for safe-keeping,
your kisses which told me
my body is a land that is alive,
and our quarrels stained with salt tears,
has been opened, between my sleeping
and waking.
I have invited this summer –
which reminds me
of the scent of an extinguished lamp –
for your sake alone.
Write to me.