Request

if you are not here
let me be by the windmill
by the picnic places
 let me walk to those places
 sit on your study chair
 wipe my crying
 watch the same book case
with the rooms, swept of your space
let me know that you will rest here.

The Broken Doll

My little porcelain doll
has slipped out of my hands
fallen to the ground
delicate
shattered
is this how she feels?
now
having lost her child
broken memory pieces on the floor
slicing her feet into ribbons
shattering the natural protective path
she carried  her child's world in her hands
 all the mothers walk
she has a heartbeat to keep in a blossom, never  flowered
she turns to a route unheard.

Near

How 

do I say this?

I wish you you were

somewhere near

here, to listen

to listen

She is walking on the graveyard of you

your existence

she knows
she was near

She never let go

above the moulds that set so fast
not here
near
near stands a grave unheard,
here
please
appeased,
try not to let her go
not here

Perhaps

I learnt to live with this guest
this trauma of slamming doors
a pain buried so far beneath the skin
that no surgeon could remove
the loss of the one closest
my small blonder shadow
shaken out of me time after time
perhaps now,
I choose the harder places
I make plans to find demanding paths
that make me shake the same way
forced by habit

The daughters

Will you ever know?
how deeply shocked into my nervous system
you are
the fiery blue sets of eyes
matching your tempers
my ocean and desert girls
looking for the undisturbed horizon
swimming against the ritual
stuck in our self inflicted bubble, separate
in the routine, the people of the city

thanksgiving?

You repeat
again
more
but where is thanks
where is our blood
our sweat
that  umbilical cord sowed into the land
where are the thousands of our people
where were their houses, burnt
where are they now
the constant fighting
the women and children
dying
they horses
the men
where is their voice
tell me
where is their blood fought bravery
tell me
where is their day?

Islands

There is a world
older than this dark lonely continent
where we sat together on a ferry
watching the islands, quiet and still
slowing passing each
conversations saved in rocky outcrops
and olive groves
back then
I had long hair
birds scattered as we circled beaches
on the back of your rusting motorbike
I finally understood what it felt like
love, different in that mysterious happy hemisphere.