the world goes asunder

December 9, 2018

On a sunny day. The reality of fine-grained buttocks. The father’s death, a precarious event. I run my hand over your sex. The scent of stripped hazel. Keening comes to an end. Light turns red and runs over our bodies. We’re covered in red silt. We swim like two tadpoles as we touch the unravelling walls. My dress on the floor, like a giant dead bird.

It’s winter. The evening reeks of damp feathers. Icicles drop with a crash, the odd passerby rolls on the asphalt. I tune in my idleness to that of the cat. I read a few lines and then watch as the light wanes on your face, as your eyes change their colour. Beauty belongs to those idling their time away. Our life among poplars and snowfalls, among the conflagrations and parades. As I run my hand over your thigh, the world goes asunder. Somewhere on the outskirts of town, where desire ascends along with the carbon black, where heat no longer reaches, we vegetate superposed in a bed: your nipples on top of my nipples. Your eyes sunken into the dark lighten my skin. The fine-crystal mesh melting away with each breath.

When the heart shrivels up, shrinks to a raisin like grapes left to dry in the attic, when flesh ebbs away, when the body refuses to allow the world in any more, what’s the use of still trying, what’s the use of still smiling?

Leaves afloat in a jug. No old man is waiting.

Doina Ioanid
Chants for Taming the Hedgehog Sow