Purple

Purple

Purple
Domestic Blues
Brother World
A Quotidian Morning, When
Sunday in Montsouris Park
The Urban Life
Melancholia eterna

Between
-the glass of water
-a slice of bread
-where are my socks
invisible, she fled her body
and in the kitchen the knives and spoons and plates were still
clanking, cluttered in the sink
a voice said the food is not salty enough
and the closet started screaming from the bedroom
the radio leaked out news, the visits of delegations to the republic
and the sound of music trickling in distance
seemed tuned to the summer heat outside
as she turned back,
unbeliever, to see how constricting her stripped off skin had been
how transparent the silk veneer of epidermis
and those small islands of freckles, like red-brown pricks
that gave her the look of speckled trout
and then she stepped back even further
almost to the front door now
wanting to leave not only her voice but her language as well
so that once outside of this, seized by light,
she could feel sorry, regretful
that wherever she was going
she could no more describe
the names of colors than voice
the form of anything she saw

AuthorLiljana Dirjan
2018-08-21T17:24:05+00:00 June 1st, 1998|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 03|0 Comments