Stunned

Locked in an alabaster room,
untouched by dawn
and untouched by noon,
years slowly cancel my flesh
degrade the dresses I wear.
— Still life is so long
and desire so strong,
like a wounded bird
I endlessly return
to what burns.
A lost indigo,
a sealed window,
that one day some hand
must open.

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Easter

There was a silence
of wine and myrrh,
an absence equal
to a presence —
instensified.
Petals came
falling upon it,
showers of eglantines,
jasmine like beads.
No word was left
inside me, yet
the red stain
of my lipstick
on the glass
proved I had
a voice — once.
In the East,
a transparent band
of blue sky,
almost a torture,
appeared.
Whispering
Light, Light
does not resent
sorrow —
We were so many
with a heavy heart,
wearing it
at noon,
like a peculiarly
fine jewel.
I remember
among vine and myrtle
I wished to cry.
Yet, I laughed.

Lacrimae Rerum

“This culture refuses to affirm death. And it is the central myth of our
culture, but we refuse to affirm that we have been expelled from paradise.”
— Leonard Cohen.

At the East of Eden
I shall die,
defenceless against
the garden wall
— the page printed
the hurt inflicted
yet, a thousand mandolins
in my mind.
Among so many
animals gone mad
such frail violets
piercing rocks —
even if something
might turn wrong
I am still calling for
an encore.
At the East of Eden
we shall die,
misled, bereaved,
broken by lies,
so let’s go down
to the rose bush,
talk a little,
drink wine —
The door is open
on the Spring night,
come on Love,
there is time —
let’s defer the tears
a little while.