My Grandma Collects Dead Children
MY GRANDMA COLLECTS DEAD CHILDREN
You sadden me when you talk
of your Pietàs.
The first one happened
when your daughter,
your world traveler
decided to travel to another world:
since then, you live in the shade of wisteria;
since then, you’re a tear in the shape of a woman.
With the blade of a hug
I want to cut all the pearls that run down your cheeks
and water the chrysanthemums.
The leaving of her body is the leaving of your soul;
on the bike you visit her rocky house
and you try to squeeze life out of it.
She was supposed to grow up,
she was supposed to give me advice
until I stop being a larva,
or even longer.
She; a child that came and went
like a cherry blossom.
The second one happened
three years after my birth.
Since then, your days begin and end with a sunset.
Oh, if Medusa tried to gaze into your eyes,
she’d turn into stone
for it is all you see and know.
I don’t know why your womb
has so little humus.
I know, grandma, I know
you couldn’t firmly hold them by their hands.
I know, grandma, I know
you would do anything to hold them now.
You know, grandma, you know
that I try to warm your kingdom of loneliness
with my mouth and ears,
but I think my life can’t replace their death.
You say that some scars devour us
and that some scars we devour,
so I wonder
if I’ll be able to escape the curse of my blood
that I inherited through ropes,
while I beg:
tabula rasa.
I just want to cut the loop of their legacy,
become a yellow blazing ginkgo.
I want you to see my garden blooming,
not withering like theirs.
Posted Jul 19, 2022, 3:18 PM UTC · edited