Archives for posts with tag: original

 

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.

Cold                    Fear

Relief                  Lost

Fair                      Agony

As I wait for you to come

I think of all the faces I have given you

All the names I have called you

Come or not

Death                Wishes

Warm                Lonesome

Erase                  Sex

I silenced

the smile

that was on

my face

 

when you

were definitely

flirting

with that girl

 

Forgive me

it was capricious

so bold

and so cheap

the force that bound us

was transient

as the clinging sounds

of breakfast

Trembling for that bitter sweet liquor I have grown used to

Joy, sir, is the word for it, as the fantoms never fail

to provide, the realms of admonished benevolence

where my entrance is no longer allowed, where my mind

dwells in erratic rambles. How could you know it?

What do you think you are to kiss me with this solid embrace,

to caress my hair with imperfect words, to be illuminated

by this unmerciful sun and, yet, to stand tall beneath it?

What do you know about all that pierced me, penetrated me

tattooed my skin with lust, revulsion, boredom, vanity

the frivolity of bodies and of hope? It is Turkey Season

again I am being gutted by my own skilled fingers

to be stuffed, roasted, decorated and served for dinner.

I have moved houses twice

pushed boxes across rooms

broke so many glasses from my set

bought new ones too

The frames in the window panels

are just as I wanted them to be

not too big, nor so bulky

to obstruct the view of my boys

The garage is a mess I never dare

to enter, the garden was destroyed

by my youngster and the dog

two weeks before Easter

But the life we have is full of joy

That we could never put a price

whatever is missing or faulty

love is not once forgotten.

This morning I opened the mailbox

and my face lost its color

there was a bank notification

(who else sends letters these days?)

to a Julia with your last name

not like Brown or Smith or Jones

but your proud Italian ancestry

sitting on the white envelope

staring at us when we last kissed

This time there were no tears

my boys laughter brought me back

to the cozy living room armchair

I took a book and stared at it for

countless minutes while imagining

how could the postman have guessed

the enigma in my heart.

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