gardens

blue flowers sprang from the root of his fingers,
reaching with their small ocher-cored heads towards her shoulders,
those shoulders that hid beneath their pale roundness
a pulse twitching salty and sweet and sometimes smelling like musty words.

„white is not to play with –
it leaves too much space for yourself
and you can get lost under its dunes” –

so he said to her, making sure to pin her to the ground with those flowers,
and she didn’t answer, convinced that he was right.
and thus she believed him, even in her cold torpidity,
giving the little of her breath to a coagulated silence
ramping her voice like ivy the cemetery fence.

© 2014 Liliana Negoi

originally written in Romanian

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