Lucía Hernández Rodríguez
NOTME
To
whom, for sure, it does concern: I’ve lived
for
looks that never came and words that were
not
even uttered, which a throat deceived;
by
silence cut, it bleeds. Your hands, so bare
yet
dressed in thorns that suit you well. Then go
ahead:
pretend your claws, your touch, will stain
my
lips. Then stir the ground and take it slow:
do
bury, wound me deeper: drink from veins
from
which I’ve drunk and gotten drunk and just
because
I thought they were as mine as yours;
—my
fault, my dear— then tear me, make me dust,
because
I always was as ours as yours.
And
then my hands, so bare, so ripped, so numb,
won't
catch your tears: I swear I’ve cried them plumb.
Like a stain on the whole
Because I learnt that, maybe, hands
aren’t meant
to hold his flakes unless I want them
flayed
or, what’s —again— that thing I took for spears,
if not a whole October dressed in "may"?
If noon’s not noon below his chest,
will time betray my word and words of
faith?
Will poems write themselves and bless
that skin I never sailed nor torn or
drain?
Will solemn mouths erase what’s left
for good
instead of letting tongues incise yet
try
to heal an earthy drop of soul I
would
have bound, if you had cared, in "mights”?
If love’s not love, what is? A
homeless door
I built from me; but I’m
not me if yours.
Implied, as he shall know
I wandered back to trails of thorns
all bare
on spirit; bold, not knowing fourth
is just
as strong as third, or first fervours
that tear
that knot I thought to be sincere.
But must
I blame her silent nights or soggy
feet?
Such wrench ignites and wounds of
concrete gone
by; went by eyes which burnt the sun
in teal
I changed for you: my reddish scars
of dawn,
because you yelled that dusk was much
as pale
as dull. Shan’t I from scratch
another sun
construct? New shoes and arms, and
tongues and tales?
Can’t I rewrite my rhyme? Am I so
blank?
Would I portray myself as stains of
veins
you wrote me from? If only care
weren’t banes.
September 2026
