You’d been purification
after all that mucus-
dressed in white and
pale blue I still don’t know
if you were the Madonna
or Pinocchio’s Blue-haired Fairy.
The salt on the ground,
the ice melting, you lying in wait
tearing you soul with
bites
tying your hair with
nettles.
You bathed in idolatry
smiling, thinking
maybe I’ll get somewhere at the end of this tempest,
maybe
they’ll blow their trumpets at my return, salutes
after the battle, horn in the hand and sung out hymn.
You kept combing your
hair with feathers and picked up the leftovers. I would talk and ask what will
become
of the observants?
Your answer He will certainly be unduly occupied. Call
the maid, I need more milk for soaking.
Then you would lay
down, in silence. What
a marvel your puzzled
eyes buried in cotton.
I dreamt of you
wandering downstream. I screamed your name but
you didn’t stop and I was
afraid to lose you until
I saw a light.
It’s me, I’m back whispered a voice.
