I.
Metropolis Affair
The bliss of your kiss sets my heart under water
And part of a cluster of bubbles emerges;
Emerges as comets committing the crime
Of merging Forever with moments in time.
Spring doesn’t wither and weather is hotter,
The traffic lights sing and the smog’s crispy white;
White as the thigh that I spy through the sheets
At points of the road where our curves part and meet.
Here it is; the mystery of your eyes that flash at me interruptedly
Between the intermittent lights of low life dance floors.
Quietly, the smoked ice sighs, its dragon breath creeping
Past doors of maidens, whores and new age knighthood.
Save me! Save me from cars that race along the street
like stars that have mercurial feet
And shoot through space
in vagabond ways!
Have me in your hand; touch me and awake
My nerves from this numbness:
From all that is fake and plasticized,
Mercantile fraud and well- bred in brand.
I hold to your tongue for my life; like a rope
That a sailor has tossed that one drowning might cope.
The scent of your breath makes my lungs slowly unfreeze
And we both drift away in a soft, morphic breeze.
But then I wake from this wet opium dream
To an orchestra of horns and symphony of screams!
Metropolis smog, an eclipse of the dawn,
And the fugitive faun that has vanished unseen.
I feel for your figure, still blinded by sleep,
Though knowing you slipped from the warmth of my bed.
The warmth went with you, like a worm of the earth
That chewed the last leaf of green life in the snow.
I know you must go, I know of your flight,
Of taking the subway with masses that flow;
Of losing yourself in this numb, senseless show
As I lost myself in a vain, horny night.
VII.
Fire
Sometimes, when it is dark outside,
The wind blows back old thoughts that I had left behind
And I find myself wanting to be blown away by them;
Torn, like a dried-up leaf,
Even if I fall apart into pieces,
And all that is left is particles of what might have been.
Even if it sets fire on everything I have.
I wish to be lit up and consumed;
To be something, someone, for somebody,
To be gobbled up and downed like a shot
That gets you light and heady.
How can one put into words this strange mix
Of melancholic savagery that floods me every time
The wind blows old thought of you into my sleep?
Lethe River
I think of you each time it rains rusty ashes on the ashtray
And the scent of smoke drains rhymes of their youth.
I think of you each time I play arcane tangoes on the piano
And the echo, empty, replies that you´re gone.
Yet, it clings on the wall, while curtains chase away the sunlight
And lightly, as if treading on the snow,
The memory of all the secret looks left untranslated,
The pages of the books we never wrote.
Know now it will not matter, when History gives reading to its scroll,
That every night I sailed through Lethe to a time when we´re no more.
And all we dreamt of doing, will wipe its lines out, line by line,
And then I´ll care so very little, yet less than you do now.
Tanya Trejo Smith Mac Donald was born in 1999 in Mexico City, and has been writing since an early age, composing sonnets at 13, and later exploring fiction. Her works have been published in collective projects and a singer. She is currently studying psychology at UNAM.such as Autor/Hago Cosas, Aquelarre Editoras, Círculo de Poesía and in newspapers such as Veinte Veinte Yucatán as well as in independent projects such as El Ocaso de las Letras. The these she explores in her writings include love, eroticism, women, mental health, psychoanalysis and identity. She is also a musician
