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What is in the mind that sees what the eye does or does not? Yesterday feels like falling of a horse, the broken rib, the soiled clothes, the taste of complete failure. But my mind is not sure anymore and no matter how much I ask for the help of the memory of others, I still fail miserably. Didn’t I see twenty? It was surely in the bag’s side pocket, wasn’t it? How can rest my head on my pillow, as usually put, if innocence might have been tarnished with what my mind saw? Deep down, I don’t want to be wrong. I caused alarm, created a fuss, why wouldn’t I? being the kind of person that does this as always, generating unbalance, the wrong kind of attention, carelessly damaging friendships and other relations. If something is to be revealed as dream during the night, how can you trust it? The scene, returned, it is definitely not the same, and it will surely be biased, what the mind saw again and again. I definitely made that phone call to my mom and she commanded, as mothers do, to either admit it and apologize or shut up, as nicely as she could this time. Maybe the new therapist is working. Whether doing it or succumbing to silence, this will haunt me like the times I caved in face of neediness, coughed without covering my mouth and many, many other times. You don’t even have to look closely and long enough to see the damage. All you have to do is disappoint once, and sulking, or silence, or withdrawals ensue. I hold all the questions while not having many answers. Did it happen or not? Am I being unfair? Can one ever cope with a life that is unsolved?

 

Horizontal lines golden

all tree branches

curtaining

two gorillas under a warm,

fabricated waterfall

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

You nibble and fondle each other

with paws that stretch

further and further

muzzles that drink

every drop of dew

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

He roams the house

for something to protect

his hands

Opens the fridge for answers

to these wrongs

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

It comes with a sense

of bewilderment

a tell-tale eye-roll

and an inevitable

why not?

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

They race past each other

we hate past no other

limit but our bitter

sorrows can bear

or can’t

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

Are we empty cogs

and gears?

I can’t say I’ve gone

all the way and back

or who ever could

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

But the gorillas hear

the calming sound

of the warm water

splashing

on little brown pebbles

And fear no engine

And never burn.

 

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I hate opening the gate myself to park the car. I want an automatic one. What I hate more is having to go back and forth a couple of times before entering my gate because one neighbor parks his truck on the other side of the street and the other one parks his car in front of my house and the garage entrance is very narrow. I really hate it. I curse them in my head over and over again during the entire process. At least, they are silent now.

She is home late again. She takes the basil she stole from her aunt’s backyard and goes for the dead flower pot she put in the laundry. It is all withered from the few hours in the car’s cupholder. She tries to take the dead plant out, but the roots are all tangled with the dirt and, to save some time and some cleaning up afterwards, she only cuts the stems, opens a hole in the dirt and puts the basil with a too small root in there, like a person would do when he or she has to tell off a kid without actually wanting to. “There, it’s done. Hope this damn thing grows. How can I treat it so badly and expect it to grow?” The strange certainty that the plant has to have its head up passes through her mind, and, for lack of better object, an empty plastic bottle is used to put it in the correct position.

I stop the car at the gas station to fill the tank. There’s almost half a tank yet, but I want to. The guy in the red car parallel to mine stares at me for a second. He is middle aged, going bald. Easy target. Very easy target. I don’t even have to dress up for this. I look down and check myself: a simple top and jeans would do the trick, amazing. I pretend I don’t know I am attractive, or do I really only know it in such moments? I was turned sideways to check the pump, but with the corner of my eye, I see a man checking his motorcycle tires. He is partly hidden by a car parked right in front of me, he is a few meters ahead. For one entire minute, I watch his moves, I try to see his face, like a peekaboo game, where the excitement of me being wrong was mixed with the disquieting perception that this hair, this neck were all too familiar. I pay the gas and look again, this time, without obstructions. I have never seen this man in my life. I sigh in relief – even the attendant notices – enter the car, roll down the windows, start the engine and ride away. There isn’t much traffic, it is late at night on a holiday, why would he even be here in this city anyway? As the car turns right on the last curve before exiting the avenue, comes a deeper, longer sigh.

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