The Hen Upstairs

Snow didn't melt thoroughly. I need the crust of ice to feel myself present inside, and safe. I'm looking at the lake. It's small -  - a polar bear compared to the size of Antarctica. I feel sorry for  the bear, that its land  is coming to an end.                  The climate of my heart is right        for seals. They swim, and afterwards     they come to the shore of   my hands. I wash them     in the daylight of        my eyes. The sea of dark        claims their eyes. Their pelts, my skin           - we all begin in one heart. I start to feel. I am that polar bear that should be left alone There is no snow. I'm terrified. The lake opens  its mouth. I scream with all my might. The body of water swallows , I'm  pushed down its throat. The inner climate of this corridor is warm and soft. The bear opens its ey...

In the places where the needle penetrates the space under my skin I, a childless queen, find a strange kind of peace The bruises grow  the colour of the soil giving birth to aubergines and songs I go home with baby bees in the pockets of my soul I set them free They dance  on the windowpanes in my corridor I grow like a child again under the sun of your love

is the alphabet  of maths and  bees his walking stick leads me out town where it snows

My Father's gone. No phone will break the night to cry about his death Alone, I cry under a carob tree I've never seen before God-knows-where will I see him again, planted in God-knows-which- form

It provides for all Madonnas and Their Child across the continents. You too can open your mouth and grab the sweetness with your hand of tongue It's taste intense like a heavy scent of grass after the men have cut the swathes Milk drops: the pearls  to wear when they're all gone: the grass, the continents, the Madonnas, the men

When on the train, and on my way to my parents's town, I always watch for them. They tend to munch the blades of grass  on slopes between the groves of trees and railway tracks towards the journey's final stage. They form a perfect part of Universe. Van Gogh? Van Dyck? Who could grasp their eccentricities? They are a piece of art, each one red-haired  a herd of femmes fatales I can't take my eyes off of them. I know the land will come to its end. I don't want to lose the cows; I do, each time I pass.

Inside the well a single cell becomes a million eyes. They look at him. It's dark,  he says. They turn their gaze away and turn into a thousand stars above his head. A thousand grains of sand become a desert and a paradise in one A stone is thrown down the well It hits the bottom of a vase The vase becomes  a place of birth where Joseph, wearing a robe of green given to him by nymphs and elves, becomes invisible. When he finds out his brothers' footsteps on the path, he walks behind them and he weeps in vein. They cannot hear. Wherever his tear drops, a flower grows its roots in dirt and flourishes. They cannot see, they're busy cunning their next move. Women appear and collect the blooming heads. They put them in their hair and enter their town, proud and free. Maybe it's  a dream to interprete.

In a basket, small, a traveller goes where he will go Pharaoh's wife's hands reach for the treasure in the reeds Light speeds Time goes back to the Nile source What the baby needs is milk and love He'll have both