Expectations Poem by Jean Marie Ruiz

I will die incoherent with altitude,
waiting for unpaid ransoms,
ignorant of the names of flowers.

I wear the language of the conquistadors
and do not remove my name.
I cannot relinquish my loneliness.
I am haunted by the unwritten.
My sons and daughters remain unborn.

I will die unchaste.
Dark tides of women carry me
past the open wounds of unfinished men
muddied with philosophy.

There can be no overture
no unbending of the tree.
Only the curve of the jar,
ideas caressed into shapes.
An abuse of logic
of light and color
an admission of love.

I will die without wisdom like the bull,
raging against sun and dust,
wanting the sword.

Under a moon of stone,
I will give myself to winter.