arreglo

You were once
an agrestal
village,
a vast field 
of sentries
now gathered.
A somber,
contiguous
semblance 
of order
grace 
symmetry. 
Your elegance 
contained
in that cold, 
calculated word 
arrangement

A suitable,
apt,
(but dry)
word for you
-arrangement-
coined 
by a capitalist 
who merely 
sought
to peddle you.

The spanish word 
fits you best,
with its 
quiet g 
arranged beside
the soft h
following
r’s that billow
from the mouth
like clouds

-arreglo-

whispering
the soft composite
you’ve become.

But somehow
you are still
too perfect. 
Too ....
premeditated.
Your contours 
shaped by her hand 
reflect the delicacy 
of her mind,
but not 
the raw
ferocity 
of her spirit.

I want
to free you 
from your
immaculate
form.
Cast you 
across the floor, 
like Modigliani did 
with the flowers
that he gave
the poetess 
Akhmatova 
while she 
lay
sleeping,
throwing them
with abandon, 
over the wall 
of her bedroom
so that 
when she woke,
she woke to the
madness that passion
erupts in us - 
the
disarranged.

The perfection
of undoing 
convinced her
that
each 
flower  
was placed
on purpose 
by his hand
as an arreglo 
on the floor. 
Not knowing
his abstract heart 
burst 
beneath the weight
of a formal
declaration,
a violence
erupting
the savage
ache 
within.


And so, 
I come to you,

-arreglo-

and I see
you speak 
formally
of your sequence,
your harmony,  
your order,
but
I hear you
cry 
for a greater purpose
for dissolution
humility
abasement
the need
to be
ruined 
for a love
worthy of
the wildness in you.