tagNon-Erotic PoetrySlow Cellar Door

Slow Cellar Door

byLauren Hynde©


To hold your gaze, I drink from the chalice
of dormant tears.

The salt.

That is why I built a shelf in the unknown cellar.
I uncover its silence every time I am there.
It is an empty cellar, with an ebony shelf.
Without furniture, or memories, and, because I leave the doors open
the air goes on in its journey without obstacles.

The shelf is of ebony.

When I go there during the day, I take a suede cloth
and a box of wood polish.

The air goes on in its journey but does not stop by the shelf,
it passes by with a slight whisper. It is what I feel
every time I am standing at the back.
I slowly chew on exotic candy that I unwrap
in a timid silence, not to awake the mosquitoes and wood fretters.

I gaze at the shelf for hours.

And every day when I am there, I take from my pocket, with extreme care,
another bottle. Minuscule.

They are bought on a store in Paris,
at the top of Rue Lepic.
The shop girl has Amelie's eyes,
and even after three months she always recognises me
and folds the meticulous package, without anyone noticing.

I do not spend money on anything else.
I stopped going to cafés or the movies, buying newspapers or fashion magazines.
I only borrow money from friends without explanations.
After three months, I check in and enter a plane,
calmly have lunch and order a coffee
and a port.

The sun.

The shelf in the unknown cellar expands noticeably
and invades every alcove.

The air goes through its journey without obstacles.

Yesterday, I counted thirteen bottles.

It is my domain.

I have no books, no paintings, no posters, no mirrors.

When on that distant Thursday I first saw you
I breathed in so deeply that the corners of my lips felt torn.

My design is to cause suffering, as if it were meaningless
an act.
That happens every time you shrug off your blouse
and it is with immense care that I let the liquid pool
by the corners of your lips.

The shelf is of ebony.
The bottles are white and minuscule.

In sepia, in lime tree.

Rue Lepic leaves me at the top of Montmartre
and I look at Paris through the half-light and the fog.

[Tears run down my face. Sweet, acidic.]

To hold your gaze, I drink from the chalice
of dormant tears.

In truth, my domain consists
of minuscule empty bottles
set along a shelf of ebony
that fills the unknown cellar
and the air that goes on through its journey without obstacles.

The rictus, the door.

The key.


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