Sunday, February 25, 2018

How many young girls?

How many stories of young girls
would I have to see
bleeding, without power to speak
before I shout?

a hand, a city, a symphony

With this broken hand
I will play
the city's unspoken symphony

Winter cleaning

To mop away, the blue hour
the leftover soap not in dishes
this is the warming spring
creeping over the last bits of our winter

Room for regret

The truth is, I knew I could have lost you
but was sure of it the moment I saw your hand
slip into another's-

unexpected, that I cry again
for a love that was buried ten years ago
under the roses bushes, behind the swing

exact locations of these memories
where we kissed last,
before we knew how to open our mouths

where we whispered
a secret long know to the adults before us
a universal truth

the truth is, I know I have lost you
by way of never once having you
why then, is there more room for regret now?

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

A murmuration

it comes with negation
the way of the murmurations of birds
like a loud song and a soft meaning
we deny the reasons we are afraid
of the dark, of each other, of being the sole bird that leaves the rest
murmuring alone by the end of winter

Eve follows her Adam

For E, for comfort

Eve left, you tell me, in the bustle of the night
followed the Big Dipper into the north
but I missed her, you said, keeping a fluffy pink blanket next to your bed
sleeping companion, Eve ran after her Adam
who begged for food and was on a constant move northwards
the red door lays waiting for Eve, you say
I can hear in your voice the shake
that Eve must have followed her master

Eve returns, you message me,
with a bruise on her left arm with ash over her eyes
must be love, I say
or else why would anyone be covered in soot
ash to ash, door to door
like an old question mark, curled for an answer

Eve left again, you say
I deduce, she followed her Adam
ran after the Bid Dipper and disappeared
somewhere under the great night sky
you will keep the pink blanket, waiting for her to comeback
but sometimes when we run-
we cannot look back.

verbs: remider

There are words about us
little children, unable to speak
to express our anger during the years

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