To S.
Sometimes men cut through women’s hair
As fugitives eager to skirt a danger,
Who knows, maybe there’s a bounty on their head,
Sometimes elderly matriarchs stay mesmerized
In front of a TV screen, and boss around family and folks
Simply through their eyes-
The pads, of course, being damp and terribly dark-
Voices.
Raped women, an abrased idiom, fathers stay silent,
Their death a white hall where they teach that only eyes
Can shout at nights torn apart in a desire for schmaltz
Or a fling-
And now the earth is burning beneath your feet,
Even dreams are on the lookout, so, heaven, and mother Moon don’t waste time watching those shenanigans,
Moon, you’d better look at how you got yourself into
A choked cry, maybe a twinge great for stealing only
Wind and dusk-
Meanwhile, my soul, the house sets you ablaze,
You, your seeds, your doubts: who owns your sky,
Maybe a father who breaks in if you run out of water?
But don’t forget a father comes in handy whenever
Death rejoins at fast snapshots every jerk of your seed.
You beg to differ? Listen, and once for all-
No proof no evidence required if the soul
Feels herself as a karstic river, or if she feels the waves
On her limbs: no agreement whatsoever
Between heaven and earth-
Fractures sweep you worse than wombs,
The blue, the red blackmail your whole being,
Or so you hear people say, and in the end
He’ll find your night, the shrub desperately striving
To struggle against the illness of your sky.
*******
To M., W.
Maybe distant, maybe sour, your words
When prophets cluster demise, and a wind
Running through those light blue shades you broke down
When the grass dried up the missing days you deserved,
The days limed by the sun you stored,
The days who spoke only of ravaging skies and wombs,
As you would listen to old tales of bones-
Anyway, there’s hustle, there’s bustle tonight,
Some hissing in the garden, some soon to be exiled,
Some stumbling down in fear never to get up again,
Those two uneasily looking at each other,
He asks for life, but she drifts her gaze
From that green first words, light-
Then you start reading and you lose the thread,
And that’s why every missing crow is food
To a Canaan faker than your name,
That’s why light so enjoys the anguish
Of mist and stones in silence-
But good for you only skies and missing people
Call life an unrelenting screeching mayhem,
Yes, they really mean it,
While her soul tired of scanning days
Would like to talk to flowers, trees, the woods,
Too bad they speak an unknown language rife
With crossed wires, shady words-
And if you can’t ever know
Where young and children end up,
Why don’t you try with moon paths, that silence
Where God gives birth among scattered prayers,
Fir trees whose slender branches once died,
Or those green almond-flavored words:
‘No one can give you lymph, sap, whatever,
As long as you are bound to stay outside the gates,
An exile from all heavens-
Maybe your soul.’
*******
To M.
But what’s setting life ablaze,
What’s breathing days, or raiding the air,
Maybe your true fiber if you hold back trees,
The onset of shadows, and no books
To give you shelter, only a coarse glint
Who strikes God at first sight,
And growls in your mind ‘births need not apply’-
So don’t stare at them in desire,
If you betrayed winter, and snow too gets snuffed out,
No way out, I’m afraid, if your old hunger
Hound the sky-
And lucky you feel earth is a mother
To the blessings you dreamt,
To the breath driving your limbs,
To a scathing fire they sold you out as silence,
To light thrusting trees at you-
And where is her soul now,
As they fire questions, is she shirking
Red sunsets, red skirts, or throwing ghosts at women?
Simple as that, you crave for the sky
‘Cause he’s sweaty, and his limbs are crippled,
Don’t you, light?’
Just stay silent, will you, can’t you see
The trees are falling, and she’s falling as well,
The dew from days who frays your breath
And will fall cold in a scant doused light.
*******
