The Third
is like an elf,
cute and coiled
with a snail face
and a needle nose,
always existing in marriage.
A child or adultery,
tea cup and cigarette,
television or silence,
there is always a third
with its shadow looming tall on a wall
that does not depart with the Sun;
Also, those worry lines on your forehead
that has nothing to do with age.
It’s a snail, withdrawing the tip of its head
into the stone shell
at times, poking its head out
winking,
moving inside its hard robust covering
even when not seen. The third is
a rotten fish smell that reaches you much before
you go to the market place.
You, her, I and the third – we all eat and thrive on
betrayal.
