imperfect (self)portrait

maybe the years are to blame

the age when withered women keep telling her

she is still young

 

she has a kitchen and a pantry stuffed with spices

a wardrobe with lavender and soap between bed sheets

even a manicure case for rainy days

in her house the flowers she received as a gift

lose their perfume in about an hour

 

loneliness nibbles with sharp teeth

pain strikes her head at once

like a rake upon which she stepped by mistake

but she can’t cry out

she stays upright with her front touching the wall 

 

counting how many times she got drunk from bubble dreams

like champagne kept cold under a powerful cork

how many nightmares passed by like quicksilver

in the nights with hidden stars

enclosed afterwards in thermometers

kept in her bosom when she was feverish

 

she’s counting how many times the present

barks or bites like an old pug

with its tongue out

she travels her fingers upon past prints

covered with a pink watercolor film

she thinks about the future as if it were a collection

of tasteless candies pulling out teeth 

 

she is the lady with a soft colored umbrella in summer

and a raven black one at funerals