Tonight, I was reading the words of my favorite poet,
whose collection entitled Cien Sonetos de Amor
has, in my time, served as my dearest friend,
and tear catcher
and most favorite book of poems ever ever ever.
His words slay me. Literally. They slay me.
And by literally, I mean figuratively.
His words demolish my heart
and then he puts it back together
in a way that makes it different than it was before
but in a way that makes it just as whole;
he turns my heart into a cubist portrait.
 
Oh, and in case you were wondering why I’ve decided to sing my love song to Mr. Neruda tonight,
it’s because he wrote about a nest.
Yes, his nest was lovely and precious and beautiful.
Yes, he was talking about her hair.
Yes, it was figurative.
Yes, it has absolutely nothing to do with me, or my daughter, or our sleeping arrangement,
but it was a nest, nonetheless.
And my daughter is still not in her own crib,
nor is she in her own room.
She has yet to leave the nest.
So, you could say that I am rather nest-sensitive, these days.
 
Oh, and I’ll always take an excuse to rave about Neruda.
 
For instance, have I mentioned that my daughter has enormous eyes?
I’m talking two
big-blue-gray-hazel-green
pools.
And, it just so happens that Neruda followed the above stanza with this:
Lovely one,
Your eyes are too big for your face,
Your eyes are too big for the earth.

There are countries, there are rivers,
In your eyes,
My country is your eyes,
I walk through them,
They light the world
Through which I walk,
Lovely one.
I mean, come on.
So, as my daughter sleeps by my side,
in our cramped, precious little nest,
her giant eyes behind fluttering lids as she dreams,
I can’t help but to blow a kiss to her,
my lovely one;
And to you,
Mr. Neruda,
wherever you are.

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