If Stars Can’t Be Counted

‘you have two heads that don’t meet each other’ said my grandma
reading with her finger in the palm of my hand
and it is as if I wanted to pull out a chicory root
so deep and bitter are lodged into ground those years
with marks on my knees from climbing the tall home stairs
that had a thick blue whitewash crust
the color of a ripe sky before tempest…

I can’t abandon now what I began once
neither my play with summer clouds
nor the floor rubbed with hot lye
nor the iron heated with embers steaming over clothes

‘Catherine was stupid when she fell in love with Heathcliff
I shall never be like her’
I used to promise myself until I saw that white dove taking flight
from that veranda where I stood crossing my arms
it smelled like wooden toys and cheesed pancakes
it fell sunlight through the vines over the song blooming on my upper lip
those times when I liked the evening stars and I did not look at the moon
…but that white bird flew off too soon too far

the man with a large bunch of keys looked astray/ he asked me to sit on his knees dressed in thin white cotton trousers/ I refused/ the river was murky under the footbridge/ his arms were like supporting ropes/ he wore yellow boots alike the policeman bored of suicide cases watching me absentmindedly

those two heads in my life meet each other like mountains
soul to soul
upon which I will fall down

Categories: My Poems in 2015, Uncategorized | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

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