Poem by Ana Marcela Ramírez, Inspired by René Magritte’s “The Lovers II”
Death has lost his trade amongst sheets,
Lovers, materialising our dreams.
I suffer the disgrace of your suffocating love,
Bitter triumphant laughter still left in my lungs.
Poets would call us faceless pioneers,
The August sky in Brussels never seemed so clear.
Your suit — à la mode — reminds me of a cigar,
My wine dress beseeches “vamos a jugar”.
Mellifluous love is a fraudulent game,
Contorting without you seems violent, insane.
Guards dangle the keys just out of reach,
How vexing our temples will never meet.
A pair of lips and a blanket per head,
Discerning those whispers, I wish I were dead.
Eyes shut, our flesh turned to whimpers,
Sentenced not to witness the part of you that lingers.