All the necessary preparations
were done. This is
what they will say when
the truth will eventually come out.
Although she never arrived
like everyone else
during the visiting hours
she almost made it.
If she had waited for a bit longer
someone, maybe you listening now,
would have noticed
the eventual passing
of such a miracle.
Photo: Maria Butunoi
to Clare B.
Clare didn’t wear
green trousers anymore.
It was a kind of winter
so she decided
other colours were
better suited for her there,
as she sat on the cross.
Her face had lots of
squares and dots and lines on it.
I remember at one point
Her face had music.
Clare didn’t say much but
I noticed how she put down
the empty cup
and replied ‘well, good bye then!’.
Her giggle melted in a slice of bread,
flowing over a blank canvas.
Photo: Maria Butunoi
You see, it can rain with blood drops.
The proof the white shirt I’ve been wearing for the past two days
on my walks through the city.
I have been saying all along that
someone died there at the top floor
but you keep reading, ask me to
sit down and drink the cup of tea
before it gets cold.
Death is not a matter of your concern, you say,
we have to hope like everyone else
for a better world and
let the justice be done.
Of course, but I
always like the tea very cold,
my hopes interrupt your thought process
as they remind you every day that
growing old means nothing.
I am the same unnecessary love,
making a spectacle of myself,
making a revolution out of silvery-grey ribbons.
In the big void, I keep standing up
with my stained shirt still on
and say no.
My mother used to say that
the yellow marks on my face
reflected the sun.
Sometimes she asked me to
sit still on the cold stone
just to prove that point.
I would refuse to see, eat,
for a day or two,
just to prove mine.
I would, instead, run to the river,
orphan but free.
The world stayed locked,
barely watching the colours through
a yellow window
until the day when
in a careless moment of joy
the poetry gave birth to me
under the candle light.
Yellow, ferocious birds escaped into the wild.
Flying away, small parts of my body.
I was new, alone with the sun,
big yellow eyes.
I was just talking to you when
The sudden breath I heard from the other side
Made me think
I too had
The same great fear of living forever
But said nothing.
Perhaps nothing was meant to settle
In front on this wall
And no! the metaphor you look at now
In this precise moment is nothing
But a distraction in my need for time.
Born to sit very still and observe
The details of your small victories
I am therefore only a brief graceful trap
Which you should never directly face.
On both sides of the fence
Exactly because you quietly follow my voice
In this imperfect landscape
A drop of ink, revealed by the greatness of your half empty glass.