IT IS PINK
this nightgown is younger than me
this is my flower, before I die
I’ll shake off all pages
until I am reduced to a naked back
it is pink
when I am at work I am a waitress
I pour water and I smile
my salary is too small
and it is better to keep on bowing
before I move out from eyes for good
it is pink
I will not watch clouds any longer
in order not to be obliged to remember them
(it is pink
zora’s edition of m. proust
that I once toppled from the top of the ladder
and scattered from a box like childhood)
midday cracked in two
when I sat on the chair
my soul is so heavy when I am serious
I can hardly fit into myself
nightgown is that word that I
slipped into quietly indeed
like a number thirteen tram
where the driver and I
veiled by black cataracts
drive the inside and fear
it is pink
between both shoulders
when reality opens up
except that in this mirror
you are not so old,
not being a flower, you are the truth, a bulb
wherever I feel that you are