Ruben Mita
You Wrote a Poem (Taxco)
I’ve said these words before, haven’t I?
I can never remember – was it a dream
or a plan, or did you hear them too?
It’s the risk I run. On the balcony,
spitting guava seeds over the terracotta,
glancing up every minute at the slow-falling moon.
Below, crowds laugh, cops swivel machine guns
from the backs of jeeps. Up here, lightning flashes,
thunderless in a clear night.
Amongst the music and crowds and dogs barking
is the added silence across the table
of a new thing being born. I listen in
to the conception and birth fluctuating
nearer and further from each other
with every scribble of your pen.
It’s the most beautiful sound, the first one.
You write, and are beautiful.
From the moment comes the moment, over and over,
until the sky caves in and we are here,
just you again, just me again,
breathing in the russet evening.
I’ve said these words before, haven’t I?
I can never remember – was it a dream
or a memory, or can you hear me now?
Ruben Mita is a writer, musician and ecology postgrad student in Pōneke. He has been published in journals such as Landfall, Takahē, Sweet Mammalian, Tarot and A Fine Line. He loves fungi, some sounds, and trying to write poetry that plays with overlapping realities.