THE HOTEL ROOM

Solitude has wild flashes.
Fantasies jump upon the stone
of desolate courtyards.
Ropes stretch and threaten to snap.
Blistered paint of old hotels,
of forgotten pillars
that cling to desperate rooms,
cry out in empty echoes.
Chipped tiles erase memories.
Pale skies eat time slowly.

We shatter the mirrors of our chambers
seeking essences;
those fragrant, few drops of light
that we contain but cannot touch.

The arms that clasp the hand-carved chairs by the bed side,
skin that ripples in moonlight, the woven blankets wrapped around us,
the face of a thousand moods, the laced curtains that tremble
by the open window, eyes that probe the wallpaper,
the metal lampshades dulled by rust, the ears that hear dreams,
the marble floors that reap our mistakes, hair flowing across the room,
the stained mattresses that groan, the backs and muscles, hard as opals,
that gently decay.

A few drops of light endure
and those we cannot touch.

             -- C.S. Cholas

                Ixmilquilpan, Hidalgo, Mexico

                6 de enero, 1983