Nocturnal Rose




I too speak of the rose.
But my rose isn’t the cold rose
nor that of a child’s skin,
nor the rose that gyrates
so slowly that its movement
is a mysterious form of quietude.

It’s not the thirsty rose,
nor the bleeding wound,
nor the rose crowned with thorns,
nor the rose of the resurrection.

It’s not the rose of naked petals,
nor the waxen rose,
nor the flame of silk,
nor the rose of fire.

It’s not the fickle rose,
nor the secret ulcer,
nor the punctual rose that keeps time,
nor the sea’s compass rose.

No, it’s not the rose rose
but the uncreated rose,
the submerged rose,
the nocturne,
the immaterial rose,
the hollow rose.

It’s the rose of touch in the darkness,
it’s the rose that advances inflamed,
the rose of pink fingernails,
the rose yolk of avid fingers,
the digital rose
the blind rose.

It’s the rose frame of hearing,
rose of the ear,
the spiral of sound,
the rose of the shell always abandoned
in the highest spume of the cushion.

It’s the rose embodied in the mouth,
the rose that speaks awake
as if it were sleeping.
It’s the rose half-open
from which flows shadows,
the rose a skirt
that folds and expands
evoked, invoked, destined,
it is the labial rose,
the wounded rose.

It’s the rose that opens eyelids,
the vigilant rose, watchful,
the rose of the expectant insomniac.

It’s the rose of smoke,
the rose of ash,
the black rose of carbon diamond
that silently perforates the darkness
and doesn’t occupy a place in space.

Xavier Villaurrutia