instead of counting sheep
i fall asleep
I woke up to a sky aligned with how i feel inside.
Cold and gloomy. I prefer it. It would have been more painful if it had been a sunny day.
He left the day I saw my first almond blossom of the season; a glimpse of hope is always in need.
We said goodbye on the last day of winter. I like to think that he will forever be in spring now, smiling down on his loved ones.
You will be missed,
& not forgotten.
i’ve never felt so proud
of making a man laugh
of making a dying man laugh.
i left him, trying to remember where i’ve put
my funeral blouse
for he is a dying man
& i’ve never felt so blessed
for all the memories i have
today, i made a dying man laugh.
nine year old comes in mumbling about his broken christmas present
&how he hates his little brother &with eyes wide open he says
he wishes he were president like the orange guy he would
kick all the turks out no miss, actually i would kill them
all then they wouldnt take our country again ill be the president when i grow up ill-
i stop him midsentece honey, they’ve lived here too, this is their land too,
we share history&customs with them, we share an identity with them
no more talk of killings in the classroom.
so you want peace?
yes, of course i do!
whats in it for you?
the girl comes in and we practise the sound of a&b&c.
i get a call while im having my morning coffee stick to your language. you’re there to teach language. you’re young, you dont know how it was, you were forced to flee your house, you never lost someone, how can you want this peace their trying to impose on us, can you imagine, going to the supermarket not knowing if the turk next to me was the one who killed my brother, stick to your language! my husband is an orphan because of the war.
i quickly calculate in my head 2 kids x 60 euro a month, third one is free. i can afford to loose that.
so you wouldn’t have met.
had it not been for the war, you wouldn’t have met. you probably would have met someone else, and you probably would have children but surely not the ones you have now. so maybe its time that we forget what we’ve lost and see what we have achieved since then
silence, as in her response she has to choose love of the orange groves she grew up in over her children, arguing during dinner.
we seem to forget that
where once blood was shed
to decorate our
they see my lips
red&voluptuous thinking they’ve been made
to say yes to kiss a child’s forehead
to please a man’s toy my other words are forced
down my throat they forget my fingers
your fragile figure
carrying your beautiful face, awashed with grief
going up the staircase
of a dark empty house
that is a home no more
follows me as i walk
hoping someday you’ll come back
every time i kill you,
i ask for your forgiveness
it seems that ive gotten my words from my grandma
she says life is poetry
words cling from flowers
grow with the grass
hide in the rain
come from diseases
give birth when we’re in pain
go to churches&mosques&temples praying
& they cry, dear, when we cry
you think they have no feelings?
&as we live we breath them in
&then we let them out
when we smile with all our teeth
the woman whose face i remember from somewhere sat comfortably on the marble floor, against the sand-coloured stonebrick wall, one tiny curly-haired girl to her left, one tiny curly haired girl to her right. it didn’t seem that she enjoyed the music, she was more preoccupied with the tiny curly haired girls who were busy trying to catch the dancing shadows or the sparkly shoes or the red satin ones or the dancers.
a few meters away from her and on a cheap plastic white chair the very old lady who wore exactly one high-heeled shoe was swaying her chubby body, sitting next to the mad lady who goes to all concerts within walking distance of her home- without paying.
i tried to talk to her once, i followed her in the alleys behind the theatre as she exited the building but she didnt notice me and in an attempt to draw her attention i yelled ‘ excuse me, i think you dropped your ticket’ and i showed her mine but her eyes threw little flames at my smile, she produced a copy of a ticket she said ‘ this is my ticket’ and she turned her back on me, limbing, heavy with secrets she’s never told and accumulated wrath.
i saw her again at the tango concert, she didnt recognize me, she said the cheap plastic white chair beside her was taken. i sat on the steps, on the cold marble floor, next to a girl who didnt have a lighter and another who never turned towards me. she was sitting next to a girl, (woman? am i old enough for that word?} who mustnt like me- i think that has to do something with the boy i loved before the man one i love now.
the tango music changed and changed and changed and we had little history lessons and i kept looking at the crowd, stealing their moments. i always do that. i steal moments. im a moment stealer. a young woman was holding a baby up high so she could see her daddy playing and my eyes always turned to the man i love now, hoping he’d catch me watching him. he did.
the girl without a lighter left while i was busy reading people’s faces, playing the game ive been playing since my imagination grew larger than myself. then a man with glasses took the girl’s place on the steps but alas, he had no lighter and he became the man without a lighter and i then once again looked for an interesting face to unlock.
the woman whose face i remember from somewhere was vaguely there, while i got lost in the tango and the sparkly shoes sliding elegantly on the cold marble floor, she seemed lost in thoughts. her tiny curly haired girls where of course oblivious to their mother’s inability to be taken away by little moments thus they continued tirelessly to be children. my heart ached for the woman whose face i remember from somewhere.
the woman whose face i’ve loved since moment one was indeed lost in thoughts ; i could feel the pain she shouldn’t be feeling whilst listening to the magic that came off the fingers of the man i feel now. she too, has ,and has been, suffering from the inability to experiences happiness in moments. watching her being lost, but not lost in music, was excruciatingly painful but i kept watching her beautifully aged face, deliberately punishing myself for all the wrongs ive done to her. she’s mesmerizing,captivating in a way my words can’t explain, wont ever be able to explain.
as tears, my quite frequent visitors, begun to travel in my body i forced myself to turn my attention to someone else. the man in the red shirt announced they’d be playing their last piece and the very old lady and a younger lady rose from the white plastic chairs, one supporting another, and walked towards the car park. the very old lady recognised the music and my ears heard her spanish accent as she whispered ‘ il liber tango’ and i see her youth awakening, her younger self stirred up momentarily and surfaced at the edge of her eyes only to hide again as the pain of her foot thrusted.
i looked for the woman whose face i remember from somewhere but she was gone,