The voice

In a hotel room in the Barrio                                                                                  
you are once again in play

instead of
over her shoulder
you are suddenly in my mouth

as if you want to show her the secrets
that lie at the back  of my throat

every small word I now want to utter
is being cut off  by your thrusts

you should have let it go, you say
what good did it bring us?

this afternoon behind the curtains of
Buenos Aires
I'm his lover and her illusionist

from my open mouth I fabricate
a monotonous string of mourning-cards

one guess who's name
is on  them?