Monthly Archives: May 2015

Wet dog’s nostalgia

Damned be that plastic uniform when I was in the 7th grade or so it stuck to my knees I pulled it down with my left hand but it was still too short and my heels in round tips stogies drew outwards why couldn’t I understand that life is like a frugal meal made of maize porridge soaked in hot milk poured in aluminum bowls using the same spoons with holes on their handles given to us by the old priest’s wife why couldn’t I see beyond the glossy covers of my books their inside core yellow-lit by the 40 watt light bulb trembling over the black rafters

Fairy tales smelled so good like fresh print I filled my pockets with shepherd’s purse small hearts I scattered them to grow elsewhere there was something of my own I dreamed of keeping the sun in my hands and the rain in my eyes to let them fall over the ground to let my hair grow long down to my waist but my mother opposed I wanted to play the mandolin like a fair-haired princess but I was brunette and my music teacher did not accept me in the children’s chorus

Why didn’t I learn to cry out to dry my tears in a slow train’s smoking compartment amid old cigarette stubs with my eyelashes painted blue because of shame that I did not understand in good time why was I doomed to see so many dogs run over by wheels on the highway in order to finally understand how some old beggar dies in the rain his hand clutching a bag with strawberries received as charity

Categories: My Poems in 2015 | Tags: , | 2 Comments

Sleeping woman, red chalk drawing

I imagine two people making love they’re like gingerbread men they stick at the hinges chocolate chips melt they become like biscuits soaked in syrup or like dry bread chips melting in sacred wine

They get dizzy and slip down they take a bath with foaming bath salts to invigorate then they start all over again he hiding his muscular strength and steely veins she covering her thin ankles and her smooth skin still too white on her breasts

I met once in a while a man I saw him as if through a beekeeper’s mask there was a beehive of women around him he stood stuck to the ground his hands on his hips his back turned to me I had never watched until then a man’s butt but it was not my fault now we’re old and gray and far apart one from another

It was a scent of young fir bud and lemon tree flowers crushed in the palms of my hands it was a wish to lay stretched on the warm naked ground it might have been a rainy summer and maybe my limbs were too tender I could easily touch the back of my head with my heels I danced on the armchair I swore I would never smoke and I would keep my backbone flexible getting old I dreamed of having my navy blue wedding in a simple-cut dress

Only that year there grew poppies on the field beyond my fence it is uncertain from where came the seed they withered and blackened like poppies do but none got roots

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