After Neruda

Suddenly, everything is a woman.

The way a street lamp curves
at the edge of a dark street,
or an orchid blooms in an empty room
patient for destruction, beautiful as a white slip
floating in the wrecking ball’s wake.

You hear the sea in everything,
its great bell-like waves sounding
deep in your anxious sleep, moving invisibly
by your ears with each passing car.

Light takes on a strange quality,
like the once-familiar scent of women
you have known or the texture of old bus tokens,
worn smooth in pockets, no longer in currency.

You want to make love
in a language you do not know,
or write prayers between the lines
of old dollar bills given to strangers.

You caress the backs of pews,
pray to unknown gods you have witnessed
from your window, their half-closed eyes
flashing in the distance, like lighthouses in a storm.

In the kitchen, you surround yourself
with apples, lemons, and a tomato.
Arranging them in silence, you can sense
her presence just beneath the skin.

When you hold the tomato to your ear
you can hear her breathing in ragged sighs,
like a ship heaving against the tide.

When you press it to your lips,
you can still taste the unwashed salt of sorrow.