One afternoon it comes to him that his arms are
no better than clouds—
it’s not possible to hold the body
you desire, or hold onto the hopes
you had. Not possible not to let go.
Fate can go bed-checking
the summer-sky constellations with an astral
clipboard in its hand,
but here what he needs
is arms at least
as strong as the wind from the sea.
And a kiss as immersing as the sea.
But what does he do? With his
inherited lips all he does is speak
words: words to the ceiling,
words to the floor,
words to his scribbled page on which
he’s crossed them all out.
And as he angles, drifting,
under his own low sky, he can see right
through his reaching
cloud arms, his cloud hands.
–Luis Cernuda (1929)
from RenditionsFind more by Reginald Gibbons at the library
Copyright © 2021 Reginald Gibbons
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.