I Need A Lover


When you give me that Yes, 
I approve of your fragrance look,
that flash tilted stare you so carefully hid 
from others, you gave me the courage 
to send you a drink. I wasn't ready to give up  
and go home alone. 

For years you gifted me snippets 
of myself, happiness I will always remember. 
Even when I forget your last and first name
those pictures won't vanish. 

Driving you home on those treacherous
Puerto Rican mountains was like discovering
a stolen Van Gogh, a universe of revolutionary
starry nights and wild irises. A place
where nothing and no one could touch us. 

It had to end. I wasn't ready to settle, 
and you insisted on hiding
from macho eyes and their complaints. 

But what the hell, it wasn't all a waste. 
There was a lot of good sex and beer.


 

Photographs

I keep getting ass pics 
when what I want to see 
are you and me old together
like stale breadcrumbs

I gaze at the man 
I'm with, my summer 
climb, nothing to stop us 
from trailblazing joy

We listen to a song 
from Camila, 
caliente, caliente 
frío y caliente 
Hot, hot, cold & hot

The beach & the daiquiris 
are amazing


 


The Myth of a Piece of Paper 


I never married but yes, 
I'm divorced. Same-sex marriages 
were not allowed in my time. 
My Lord the Moon painted lust 
on my face three times. 

Mr. Moon knows 
I cannot manage tempests 
on my own. He sends 
them to Her Majesty the Sun 
who then lights up my thirst-filled 
lips with fire & water.  

In the garden of faith 
& trouble all of us tread 
uncertain of the hazards 
lust might avail.  No 
celebration, naive beliefs 
blown away. A mixture 
of dirt, wind, & rain.

moon's glint
the sun above 
my ghost

 
The Stillness of the Moment


It's time for lunar silent men 
to strike a pose. The ivy covering 
men's eyes must come off.
The hour of kisses covered 
with mud has ended. Dogs scurry,
hide in deep water. 

Sleepwalking cats made of glass 
perched on the tree 
of my remembrance shatter.  
Boys and girls without wings 
or halos vanish.

I sit on a high chair 
wearing crocheted roses like the ones
stretched out on the skin of my  drums.  

Your ghost, clothed in musical silence, 
watching. 

Your conscience, a sore 
that sways through Cocytus 
staring at my face.




Sergio A. Ortiz is a retired Educator, Bilingual-Gay PRican Poet, Human Rights Advocate. Pushcart nominee, Best of the Web, Best of the Net. He took 2nd place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz annual poetry competition, sponsored by Alaire Publishing House.