for Stefana, Aurora, Alexandrina, Elisabeta, Lina and all the women in whose tired hands the sun used to set
I can only write this in my own language
maybe people don’t have a name of their own
or a time comes
this apparent abyss, incommensurable
in the **** of time
they didn’t live with duty free promises
I wonder how they dealt with the blood
with their naked arms
furious at stones
woman-pillow
the earth knew how to be quiet between eyelids
the wind was superstitious
no rush into a smile
they couldn’t predict the lipstick
and the tantric love
curses cross bridges
and their hair would hide
woman-wheel
back then the sunset was still happening
and maybe an eyebrow would raise
the duty to yourself was not yet invented
only beautiful hats, some scarfs
swallowed pains, unrecognized feelings
woman-pillar
woman-child
their smoked skirts and rebellious step
they used to descend into their hands and into sweating
they never went out of the sun
not to disturb the wise colours or the needle work
when the bones of their men screeched
morning would come
and they wouldn’t have woken them up
not even the ignorant god of enduring
woman-silence
I’m sitting in the mirage of dresses, perfumes, high heels
and their names are searching for me:
the night of the hunter is not over
I would kiss their hands
for a portion of wonder
of patience
love looks for the oneself
in the other
they were much more
much less than
a name
fading