by Cecilia Resio

Paris is white like the thighs of gothic girls
with their huge coats, and hair as black as predatory crows.
I used to watch them cross the icy square,
they seemed to hurry up to a first rendezvous,
eager to couple.
Paris is red like the blood I got
from my finger to dip the brush
made with my hair,
how incorrect, to paint like that,
what a barbaric and morbid way
to interpret love.
I have described your mouth and your armpits,
the landscape that can be admired
from your throat, your arms,
under your skin.
I have drawn
your slimy uvula and the wickedness of your incisors,
without exceeding the edges, meticulous and enslaved.
Paris is dark like the bottom of my irises,
like the angles of intelligence,
acute, like the beards of ogres, like the clothes of gravediggers.
Like the celestial vault,
that time it turned black.