Letters to Nikos

what hides under the skin

we fix blades on the skin

where the skin is soft, where the veins are raw

sometimes we soak our fingers in blood

and stains—we leave on walls, on paper, on the chest of the one next to us

we feel no pain never

only the guts that we know to be gathered in warmth, sheltered

like twisted strings

make us sick

I know why you run your hand through your hair and pull

it happens when your scalp is like glass

tightens

and still lets be careful not to commit suicide

we can silently crunch our small

mechanisms of despair

*

we run away from people we walk our eyes closed our lips sewn

it’s our night here nobody frightens us anymore

let me put my face against your face blink so close to your cheek

to our home runs a white road

we understand we cry each other’s tears

we love each other

I was watching you next to me. I was watching you tossing

running from one side to the other full with fear

like an animal

I’ll scratch the walls with my nails

tear my skin strip by strip

the one lying under my skin will always be a stranger

keep away from me I can’t talk to you.

all I wish for

is take you in my arms and rock you.

but no.

at the end of this poem there is no end.

*

I also hide in a house that’s not mine

tempted by the open window

I head for it measure it it’s tall

it’s a baby there calling me

a baby with a yanked out eye

*

I enjoy sucking wet clothes

I press my mouth to them before squeezing them

fill my mouth—every cavity in my molars

with this water.

I strike the wall. I have a few favourite centimeters

there I strike the wall with the back of my finger.

dad will never again come drunk

will never crawl on his knees to the bedroom

with white foam in the corner of his lips my brother will never again yell to him

you’re a loser a drunkard

nor will my mother ever again bark at night.

starting today we don’t kill the beetles anymore

we’ll give them names then we’ll sow them in pillow cases.

*

this is my death

I am the bald girl my head full of bumps

the tongue inside me is alive again

I feel it rummaging every corner

it licks my stomach my liver my lungs

nothing escapes it and I want to vomit it

you understand, elena

I can’t tell you more than this:

I entered my death year

nothing wears us out more than this impatience

I pay attention only to the ants

scattered at our feet.

otherwise I can’t hear anything. I know I must not look

keep everything of this day

the tumbled shirt

the length of the hairs in the beard the little stains of blood

on the face on the arms

from everywhere moth butterflies are flying

bump against our chests

*

elena comes every Saturday and cooks for us

elena holds her hair in white cloth

splits the bones of the chicken peels the potatoes

and tells us about the little gypsy girl who was running

through the rain squeezing her little nipple

and the blood gushed out. always the same story.

the food is tasty.

my yells thrust like birds

in a raw wall the yells of a baby with wire in its nose

the woman next to me covers my mouth

with both of her hands

she’s beautiful wears a transparent dress

I see her long and yellow legs

wooden legs

one by one she puts on the faces of those I love

(in this order)

mom andreea irina miruna madi angela

I am the most beautiful woman in the world

my brain is a field covered with violets

in the bathtub near my white feet swollen with water—

a plastic bottle as big as I

a carcass then she comes again and I’m not afraid anymore

she’s warm like my mom’s belly

*

you wait for the water drop

to penetrate your clothes

and get to your skin

that’s how long it takes to realize

that she also can be as warm

as mom’s belly

*

in my feet grow the baby’s little feet

in my hands its little hands

I’m a set of little clothes

when I’ll have my baby

I’ll bury it in the kitchen of my granddad’s—

deep

thick floor I shall build above it

*

pack your baby’s little hands

and send them to your best friend (…)

only next to you she stays she takes it

stiff

driving from time to time

in her cheeks and chest

pin needles