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Articolo Comunità Concorso Saggistica Multimedia Personali Poesia Stampa Prosa _QUOTE Sceneggiatura speciale | ||||||
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agonia ![]()
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Romanian Spell-Checker ![]() Contatto |
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-10-09 | [Questo testo si dovrebbe leggere in english] |
One long, dry summer,
we were as close as an electric storm on the way, and the sweet, toasty smell of your corn husks hanging in my pantry was the perfume of a dusty, Southern longing. I thought you an old man- selfish and virile- but really only sixty-three. I once cut your sparse grey hair, while I secretly bled, repelled by the deep, ingrained cracks in the leathery skin of your sun-toughened neck. We met for bitter coffee, most weeks, and you brought me piles of library books smelling of applewood smoke, and you lent me a recording of Spanish songs se llama 'Cantemos en Espanol"... (El Unicornio, Ojala, La Maza)... I used to drink gin and smoke beadies and listen to Mercedes Sosa's beautiful, sad groanings in my orange vinyl and plywood caravan- would lie weeping, heavy, lethargic, my inner thighs itching with sweat on the orange foam mattress, and I'd be filled to a hot aching with a new desire, and with the sweet, burnt dust-memory of corn shucks. Secretly, I would play a tape on which you'd recorded yourself reading 'Sunstone' in your gravelled tones (or perhaps it was Borges...), the Spanish words a sand-sifting, a delicious seduction, a secret fever that I kept hidden. You were almost indifferent to me- I knew that- but it seemed you had drily breathed me back to life. My troubled core an earth-oven of longing, the aftermath of my closetings was always tainted with the smoky, toasted musk of corn husks.
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