From my old lines...

What can I hold you with?

I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of ragged
suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a girl who has looked long and long
at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead girl, the ghosts that living girl
have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the
frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide
of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twenty four-
heading a charged of three hundred men in Peru, now
ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever detail
or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a girl who has tried been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow –the
central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with
dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of yellow rose seen at sunset, years
before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself,
theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my
heart; I am trying to bribe you with
uncertainty, with danger, without defeat.