POEMS
Binary star system
The largest known star, a red hypergiant, is called Stevenson.
I would have called her Rebeca. Or Ensar.
There are dwarf and less hot stars that burn slowly, live long, are well preserved.
There are lone stars around which no planet revolves.
Stars that can't sustain life.
The stronger the burning, the faster the stars go out or explode.
Before death, some grow huge. Then, they burst from too much boiling.
There are stars thousands of times bigger and more scorching than the sun.
There are planetary systems around them.
Who knows how many beings say their prayers looking at them.
There are also blue stars, which go out slowly, unknown to anyone.
And there are stars bound together in so-called binary systems.
No one has been able to explain exactly why they rotate together.
When you came into the world I knew that our souls are made to spin like this without purpose
One around the other
Like two humming tops
Maybe the stars whose ashes are now in our bodies made part of such a binary system
And their atoms keep try to recover
What did they know once about life...
Objects
The lamps in my grandparents' house are unharmed, they look like in childhood. They grandparents are no more.
I have fir cones from high school, bracelets from my teenage years, the hat I crocheted for my first cat.
I have a broken vase, received from my oldest friend.
I keep an empty bottle of perfume in the window.
I have dried flowers, shards, old scarves, ugly drawings.
Objects help.
They make seem as if there is continuity.
The house is fuller and fuller.
Absences are well covered.
The most precious thing I have is a greenish sweater.
I keep it in a sealed bag.
The morning comes like a ghost.
It opens the windows, pushes me into the shower, puts the coffee on the fire.
Does everything in my absence.
Silence accompanies me everywhere like a lame and gentle animal.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and tear the bag.
Like a bullet
Happiness must have pierced your chest like a bullet
If definitely must have been true
to come to know how devastating,
how scathing it could be
How wracking his empty coffee cup looks like
left on the window still
in the moment when his absence
fills the house
like a snow fall that hurts
everything
Confusion
No, mom, it's not me the buddy in the photo
It's someone else, don't you see, his cheeks have been sculpted by wind
His lips are thin, his hands are exhausted by labour, you know how lazy I am
He has mild, compliant eyes
You know with how much anger I fly at all jerks throat
Don't you see how humble he is?
I am all revolt all pride
And, besides, you are younger than him, mom
In all of my reveries.
Poem with lace dress
I'm dressed in a white lace dress as if I should go to the ball.
I write from the first hour in the morning as though it would mean a thing.
I'm struggling to make the autumn come as if something was going to happen.
I'm studying my face as a traitor, as if I had a choice.
I'm arguing with impossible and untrue things, then I apologize, as if someone knew.
I regret what I thought and felt in vain like an evil act, as if someone cared.
I run through the others' illusions like a rat lost in a dark cellar.
I even have an icon at the edge of the bed as though I had faith.
There are terrible struggles inside me and there are only beaten men in the end.