I am the prodigal son’s mother
I kept the baby swaddled too tightly until he was gone
in the world of temptations
to straighten his knees
I gave the wind my flesh to bite it forty years
in the desert with the rough sack dress over the empty belly
I washed the feet of sacred statues with oil from olive tree nipples
I gave to the rain the color of tears still yelling after my baby
from the mouth of a cavern open in the storm
I learned the barren law
of the damned souls’ forest
like a sunflower I raised myself at sunrise
going round until the night left me bent to the earth
with my heart black and heavy with my son
who didn’t return
because of my great love
Although it is so beautiful here after the stars begin to shine
I am seasick as if I floated
in the luggage compartment of a ship of fools
where I was hidden by one of the deportees.
My head spins asking on and on when we will crush
against imaginary icebergs.
Sitting on a bench in a park that no one visits
I throw wheat in plenty for the city pigeons
that otherwise eat one another.
I feel important as if I were a peace treaty before being signed.
On my right there’s a shadow that I cannot wipe out,
on my left there is a book forgotten
by the one who fed the pigeons before me.
I drag a mountain behind me
wearing my shoes resoled nine times by inexperienced cobblers.
I almost forgot how I wandered on the narrow streets
in order to see the sun setting down in flames.
As if I waited for another table of commandments
to fall from above and make me kneel.
I am still waiting.
let it rain my fist is full of sunshine grain
I feed the red bustards in my chest
otherwise they would fly against the odds
life’s precious moments
swelled like silk worms’ cocoons
we need both rain and sunshine
but we don’t need red bustards
I’m afraid to speak ungracious words
because they would fall on the ground
and any seed can germinate on fertile soil
in this night of the iguana love is still here
and the rest is silence
for the sake of tradition
the real queen of hearts is the one who lives in wonderland
the guillotine is still functional if another snow white appears
or by chance a cinderella or the worst of evils a hybrid
curie dickinson saint cecilia
exactly like i was sometimes when it was sunday in my life
and all the burners of my kitchen stove were occupied
and i was singing like betty boop or like maria from the sound of music
sewing roses on a white fabric casting away the clouds
because of pure innocence
but in the big world only big game cards count
the real women know how to imitate the rain the orgasm and the tears
things that the other ones don’t even understand
the world calls the latter lost women and oblige them to pay interests
for every penny given as charity
the more their smile is closer to the virgin’s smile
and their children surely brought by giant white storks
the more the men say that all women are ****s and them the same
therefore all real women stand firmly on the ground
burning off their wings since babyhood
and their men learn to fly because the women deserve to be free
and them not