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.