after i die people will caress
the bones of my words
they’ll gather them from the paper with their eyelids
they’ll embrace them with their thoughts
like the thighs of a woman those of her man
they’ll squeeze them of sense and colour
and will leave them to lie wilted on the ground
trying to find out “what did the poet mean by that”

and in all that time the poet will chit-chat over coffee
with some mediocre saint
gossiping about the collection of snake tales of some people
or about recipes of compote of forbidden fruits
with no more drops of care in her pen or even in her ink
for words

© Liliana Negoi

originally written in Romanian


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