Metáfora II

It is the precise hand that separates me

From what I was permitted to name

And what I have always known beneath the visible

I say – body’
and mean a threshold

Just a place where things pass through
whether I consent or not

I say ‘silence’
and mean a room
that remembers everything

I say ‘love’

and mean the undoing
though I’ve called it other things to make it easier to keep

And here in saying one thing and meaning another

I begin to breathe not freely but sufficiently

As though metaphor
does the work for me

As though air is easier to accept when it arrives
in disguise

I do not take the world
as it is

I take it as something adjacent, tide, light

A turning I can tolerate and in that adjustment
it becomes manageable

Almost beautiful

And I

Still composed, still intact in appearance

Open just enough to continue

Without having to call it
what it is