W

Wallowing in mud she returns to herself. One day all will end

This area

'This area is reserved for families and diners only'

The sign stares at her face a white shadow crosses her face. Reserved for families and diners. Her glass in the air, she runs away. The others look with curiosity, and return to their conversations. Everybody knows she is a bit difficult as her parents say over and over again. She stands in the corner eating her nails.

 

 

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Woke

She woke up and the world was upside down the river was the sky the sky the river. She thought she was dead and vomited yellow.

 

 

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We don't

We don't know when she is coming back. In the meantime, we dream in yellow.

Count

I count every step. I know it takes fifty three from here to the station. Every day, I plan what I will do once I get up and go.

 

 

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Found

She found the typewriter in a charity shop. At home, she put it on her breakfast table and spoke about her plants waiting for her in the old house, wilting and dying under the luminous sky. She kept saying there is no shelter.

 

 

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Noon

Noon.

 The food burns down to a brown sludge. 

The windows open a gentle breeze, she weeps on the couch.

M

 

Mother likes flowers. She says at least they are happy. We try our best and harvest them from the nearby cemetery. Times are tough and we do not know the language.

 

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Cannot

Cannot sleep 

tried everything

 eyes open open staring at ceiling

 pacing up and down

 sat down to draw

 pray

 listen to the radio

 everything quiet

I wander through the night

Memento

The plane leaves in an hour. She packs some blades of grass in a plastic bag and places it between her breasts. She crosses herself and prays to the Virgin as we mutter a long good-bye. 

The sun dapples her silhouette as she goes through the corridors, she already walks like a ghost 

 

jars

The jars, full of dead flowers, are her only mementoes. 

 

The horizon

The horizon discharges yellow. She stands on the veranda, watching, perspiring:

Burnt yellow, phlegm yellow, spit yellow, dream yellow

 

 

 

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Embroiders

She embroiders the poet's words, the cicadas' chants, the sun at midday, all the fireflies.

"Your love..."

“your love is all I think about”

 we listen over and over again

 we fly to red and yellow dancing in our room

 for a moment there is nothing 

 

The red door

The red door opens, she enters, she looks behind her and makes a gesture. We do not understand, maybe she said goodbye. We stare at the now closed red door and wonder. We get tired of waiting and go home.

A year later we receive a letter. In her will she has left us her old books. Her body was found in the park next to the bench where she used to sit down to read and watch passer-byes.

 

 

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