Under the lamp
I have
a flock of boxes,
small cubes,
fastener
and hinges;
they shepherd the light
over the glass
and I,
without knowing what to do,
polish their lids.
The cloisonne one
I bought
in an auction;
it was in Paris
and it was raining:
Vallejo approached
and almost got it,
bedazzled,
from that arm;
I retook that box
that I had wanted to give you
in order to hide something,
I don't know -
some desire
in its tiny space;
in the enameled candy dish
I tucked away your smile,
the same one
as that afternoon
that slipped
from your lips;
in the little Limoges box
I keep reproaches;
in the crystal one,
my worries,
in the mother-of-pearl
- careful--
I choked it up with words --
the ones I silenced during one wake
and those, between dreams
you said to me;
those that weren't for me;
in the silver moneybox
- goads of your voice --
those words
I don't want to hear;
what torrents of silence
these boxes
retained.
Now
they're already empty;
it won't occur to anyone
to open them;
they contain nothing.
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