maybe the years are to blame
the age when withered women keep telling her
she is still young
she has a kitchen and a pantry stuffed with spices
a wardrobe with lavender and soap between bed sheets
even a manicure case for rainy days
in her house the flowers she received as a gift
lose their perfume in about an hour
loneliness nibbles with sharp teeth
pain strikes her head at once
like a rake upon which she stepped by mistake
but she can’t cry out
she stays upright with the front touching the wall counting
how many times she got drunk from bubble dreams
like champagne kept cold under a powerful cork
how many nightmares passed by like quicksilver
in the nights with hidden stars
enclosed afterwards in thermometers
kept in her bosom when she was feverish
she’s counting how many times the present
barks or bites like an old pug
with its tongue out
she travels her fingers upon past prints
covered with a pink watercolor film
she thinks about the future as if it were a collection
of tasteless candies pulling out teeth
she is the lady with a soft colored umbrella in summer
and a raven black one at funerals
a bird is resting beyond the road
it’s snowing for centuries over her wings
bird’s claws are piercing the ground
new scales begin to grow thicker
I’m afraid to look in the mirror
there’s no one left to tell my troubles to
some walls are like storm clouds
blue crevices come out of the blues
a spider sleeps inside an old mandolin
all drawers are crackling from inside
the candlestick got stuck in wax
the everlastings shed their petals
my stomach burns from thirst and cold
I’m wrapping around me a checkered blanket
hunting sunlight specks with my plastic horse
sipping my pink tea under dawn eyes
when cherry blossoms cover every legend
I’m galloping like the knight in a tiger’s skin
in the room nearby
palm tree leaves are strewn on the floor
covered with antiquarian dust
beyond the road it smells like jasmines
dreams always take a longer breath
I had been asked a few times to dance with young boys wearing an unnatural, stiff air of boldness. Sometimes my arms hair raised with repulsion. It was as if I were a duckling swimming in dirt, fearing to step over the others’ shoe. Large feet and hair that did not obey to combs. Inside my round body I felt even more rounder, emotions were drawing entangled curves and vine spirals. I was asking how many steps I have to take on the right or on the left, counting them while music flowed around me like a train speeding in a flag station. Boys seemed to be carved in wood and there wasn’t a fairy queen to give them life to be little adventurers. It was better in childhood when I was climbing the wild morello tree in my garden, dreaming that every branch was a room in my house. I would have liked boys to be like that cherry, to find place for my bedroom or my kitchen filled with dolls.
You don’t know how to move, you’re like wood, someone said to me when we tried to dance tango. All girls have dancing in their blood he said, and I didn’t agree. I wasn’t all girls.
I preferred to listen to piano sonatas on a stormy day, my heartbeats were equal and calm. I couldn’t understand why for others everything was so tormented, how they could dance and swirl while skies were so clear and stars shone so brightly.
On my living room carpet yellow roses are blooming. The curtains are sprinkled with poppies and cornflowers, that’s what I feel sometimes. It is here where I sleep because I remember more easily how I was drowning myself in fresh cut grass in the fields, under open skies. It is a larger place here. When I was little I saw bottles transformed in puppies or kittens wearing knitted cloth, moustache and little ears. I wouldn’t like to have one of those and I don’t need fish swimming in a small aquarium.
Sometimes I build with needle and threads a lonely house near a lake with swans. I pour water periodically on my apartment plants. The green ones remain, those with flowers wither. I like to chop in tiny pieces parsley and garlic. I don’t cook pastry or sweets, I don’t use cinnamon or bottled essences. I never wear perfumes. Sometimes I open an old drawer where I hid and tightly corked up a perfume from my youth, realizing that it becomes more and more cloudy as time goes by.
How wonderful it is to watch seagulls flying upon my window! I can’t remember when they came in our town, far from sea. It is like a slow song, like a white waltz. I stop the music and sometimes verify if the front door is locked. The scent of a story book with brown stains spreads under my bed lamp. The ugly duckling falls asleep in the little match girl’s leap.
Searching for an affirmation
I found just interrogation,
Always lost among words meanings
Like a bookmark inside feelings.
I’m a witness of world’s change
With its concrete goals that wage,
Holding dreams stamped in the night
From my readings slow insight.
Blue sky fields ripe in my heart
And I need to share a part.
I tread vagabond in time
Hoping for tomorrow’s dime.