| Once she was a mystery of life
|
| Now she is skyping with her friend
|
| They are both childless
|
| It rings a hollow tone: childless
|
| No longer a mystery of life. |
| Just less
|
| She found stretch mark cream in an Airbnb bathroom
|
| It was just cream
|
| Rubbing it on her belly, she felt nothing
|
| I was just an accident
|
| I was just an accident
|
| I was just an accident, even to myself
|
| She is curious about crying nipples
|
| To her friend she finds herself saying:
|
| «I wonder how I’ve managed to avoid conceiving
|
| You know, by accident
|
| So many years. |
| So little fruit
|
| You know, maybe I would’ve just kept it
|
| Probably, I can’t even do it», she says
|
| She eats dried figs from a container
|
| I was an accident
|
| I was an accident
|
| Once I was an accident, and a mystery of life
|
| Once I made people believe in miracles, or God, or love
|
| I was the hour of the star
|
| I moved like a jellyfish
|
| I smelled of nothing
|
| And she was told she was the closest
|
| Her mother came to magic
|
| She is made for other things
|
| Born for cubist yearnings
|
| Born to write. |
| Born to burn
|
| She is an accident
|
| She is flesh in dissent
|
| She is an accident
|
| A curious androgyne
|
| She is an accident
|
| Flesh in dissent
|
| Flesh in dissent |