Antigony I
When Antigony leaves she always forgets something.
A lacy glove on the satin bed-sheet,
a steamy drop of lemon
on a friend’s cheek,
a stolen touch on a lover’s arm
a lip-mark on the porcelain tea-cup
when she drinks hastily.
It is Antigony who forgets,
the gauzy, moistened handkerchief
by the sudden momentary tears,
the little umbrella in the fragile rain.
It is Antigony who forgets,
the rustle of her dress as she walks,
her fan that changes seasons.
Antigony always forgets something.
For this she always leaves.
Only some nights, she starts to remember something,
she sprinkles ashes on her hair
buries herself in her cave
and laments for the unburied dead.
Libros Libertad 