I do not know why the invisible angel came to me.
I did not change the colour of my hair
Nor my skin, the very flesh, the way I walked
I did not even speak to anyone
On my way to Antarctica.
But still, to my surprise, the angel stopped
And took a bite of me
Like he would bite a silent piece of fruit.
Since then, I keep looking at my imperfect face
And touch the scar.
I cannot breathe.
No blood, nothing but unblemished words
Fill my new white prison.
Painting: Manuell Manastireanu, ‘To Be’, acrylics on cardboard
Just before midnight, in the unpreventable moment
When my mother woke up to give birth to me
I jumped out and
Spilt all her blood on the floor.
That was my first angry poem
Which I screamed at the top of my voice
In the pale room.
I had good lungs. The doctor’s verdict.
But the still asleep city shhhed me and
Asked to turn the noise down.
Mother went back to bed.
The following day I learnt to
Write on white walls with red letters.
You arrived at night like sudden news
Dropped on the wooden floor
Through the letter box
And said that I looked
Like a drawing on a white wall to you so
We rolled our sleeves up
And made poems out of clay.
Each word left a trace on my skin
The time just added thousands and thousands of marks
Bites of land which the current spat out.
The poems had no weight so
We captured them in small bottles,
Let them float away in the air;
Brief prayers to comfort
The dying in their last hour of pain.
Nothing disturbed the stillness of the moment
Nothing at all
But the unsettled dark owl
Kept watching us from afar.
The sunrise about to burst in.