Monday, January 4, 2021

How to Love a Porn Star

How to Love a Porn Star
First.
Foremost:
Understand 
she can never be yours.
Even though she owns
your heart,
undoubtedly & irrevocably,
she will always belong
to everyone else,
to her co-stars,
to her audience,
to her fans.
You are none
of these things;
you can never be.

When I meet her, I have no idea
who she is; just the gorgeous
crimson-curled girl
washing her clothes
at the lavanderia,
attentively watching
Spanish language telenovelas,
brow furrowed
as she tries making sense
of the endless melodrama.
I had never heard
of Dallas Wagstaff.

Second.
Never ask for sex.
It's her job, & no one  enjoys
bringing their work home.
Instead, be patient;
she will come to you
upon her own whims,
full of desire & lust & magick,
& she will mount you
like a wide-winged dragon,
& soon enough
you will find
yourselves intertwined
& writhing like a gordian
ouroboros.

She seems surprised
when I approach her,
or annoyed, thinking
I was little more
than another
overzealous fan
presuming
she was forever
on the prowl
for new lovers,
her brow
only digging deeper.
"You seem a bit confused,"
I chide her, "I'd be happy
to translate, happy to open
the world to you. My mother
always said two tongues
are better than one."

Third.
Abolish jealousy.
It serves no good
to anyone's heart,
as thoughts of late
nights & long
weekends away,
as neverending visions
of countless men & women
having their way
will only eat at you,
a restless, rabid raccoon
perpetually gnawing
at your guts
& regurgitating
indigestible bile.

"Te extraño," I say
as I transcribe the words
onto her bare back
with a sumi brush
dipped in jagua henna.
"Te extraño," she repeats,
"What does that mean?"
"It means I miss you,"
I reply as I cap the "n"
with a tilde.
I pull back
to get a better look
at my handiwork,
her vocabularium.
These words will fade,
but she will always see
their shadows.
She turns her head
to catch me
from  the corner of her left eye.
"¿Me extraña," she asks, coyly,
"aveces?"
"Me extrañas," I correct,"Bueno,
siempre y nunca, amor."

Finally.
Accept that you will lose
her. Nothing lasts,
nothing is permanent,
every story ends.
One day, Dallas will get home
from Houston after a weeklong
series of shoots with nary a call,
nary a text, & all
this incommunicado
will drive you mad,
& you will attack
in a jealous rage.
You will insist
she be only yours.
You will demand
she fuck you,
immediately, to prove her love.
& she will realize
that you, too,
are incapable
of loving her
the way she needs
to be loved.
She won't even unpack
her bags, she will call
a friend to get her & she will leave
you with apologies pouring forth
from your lips
like oxidized wine, nothing
but vinegar in her ears;
the damage already done.

I never
did get to know Dallas,
only ever the girl
she hid beneath. "Why
do you like painting
on my body like this?"
asks the next one
I cannot love.
She thinks
it odd,
peculiar,
kinky.
"I love words," I lie,
"the way they feel
when they are drawn out,
when I can witness
their permanency & impermanence
at once."
"Are we permanent?" She asks,
wriggling under the tickle of the sumi brush.
"Of course," I say, smiling
at her extended eye.
I finish the thought in my mind:
as permanent as these words
inscribed on the wrong skin
in jagua henna.

2 comments:

Tim Ward said...

Fernando, As always I am astounded and grateful to have this friend who is you translate the wonders of life, love, the world, through your Poetry, Tim

The Word Pimp said...

Thank you, Tim. I'm humbled at your praise...