Milk Hands, Remembered Bodies
I thread the needle through the egg to pierce two horizons
I grow bored in rows that follow one another in skillful spirals
nocturnal chaos with the streetlights turned off before midnight
by decree of the city hall and party-loving insects
when I began to fly toward you I directed my flight
according to the clamor of the clouds when they collide
don’t you think that if you love poppies you should eat
their seeds as well as the petals
never in childhood did I clean my slippers in self-blaming flurries
my thoughts return to my mother’s hands
with every word she clenched them so tightly
that the rings dug into the flesh of her fingers
the energy accumulated above the cotton-weaving machine
the syrup of words flowing through the folds of her skin
the handbook of the woman who must exist
despite all solar and musical systems
the glass of wine filled up the breath of the sun
about salt and salt mines making their way down the cemetery path
where my grandfather’s grave has fallen into oblivion
about how much I regret that all my great uncles and aunts died of cancer
about the birds of the sky that nestle from the cold into the quilt of clouds
there are two mirrors albeit on the same side of the wall
where I always reflect with my hands soaked in milk
⁎
a dragonfly flew into our bedroom
we often walk to the cemetery to chat with the village dead
I’ve never been good at offering comfort to others
I am still everything that love has erased within me
without disturbing the essence of sexual and non-sexual desires
when the elephant man leaves the game with broken teeth
his right hand pressed against his back
amid the audience’s mocking bursts of laughter
when the towel dries on the radiator in brand-new stripes
that it could not show when caressing the body
when the dialogue with the dead gives bad heartburn
when all this will have happened in abundance
the father will have died both in a dream and in reality
hidden beneath each phallic symbol that is meant
to die in peace avenged and savored
like cold food
wreaths tactfully placed down on his chest
his beard touched by dandruff, resembling julien sorel on his motorbike
sweet fantasies the little girl who expected him at her place
until the age at which she left for good