Poem
Ruxandra Cesereanu
The flower girl
I think you’re the death who will come disguised as a manbecause death can only be a man
solitary wizened drunken
in no sense is death a woman
not even a superwoman with a perfect body sharp curvaceous
death can only be a man mature with a tarnished sex
the flower girl in me can’t wait to fall into bed with him
the suicidal whale spies him far across the sea
how he sits and sips tequila slowly from a bottle a quarter full
I’m already hooked on him the man with a hangover
abandoned by other women but never delicate or sterile
with the power of darkness the taste of a broken glass
after a night of love I feel him distant like a garland around my hips
as the metis in hawaii uncoil their hair in lizard-like braids
to hatch him until he’s a death’s head moth
the man who’s death and drinks tequila is
in my uterus pickled in jasmine
I spy him from far away and wave goodbye with a handkerchief
he descends toward me on an escalator
then lights up a firefly and burns my hair cropped short
my hair burnt for him for my manly death of a man.
florăreasa
florăreasa
cred că eşti moartea ce va veni în formă de bărbatpentru că moartea nu poate fi decât un bărbat
singur zgribulit şi beat
în nici un caz moartea nu este femeie
nici măcar suprafemeie cu trupul perfect ascuţit ondulat
doar bărbat poate fi bărbat matur cu sexul mat
florăreasa de mine nu îl aşteaptă să-i cadă la pat
balena sinucigaşă îl zăreşte la mare depărtare
cum stă şi bea tequila cu mişcări încetinite dintr-o sticlă pe sfert
sunt deja drogată după el bărbatul mahmur
părăsit de alte femei dar deloc fragil ori steril
cu tărie de beznă cu gust de sticlă pisată
după o noapte de dragoste la distanţă îl simt ca o ghirlandă pe şold
precum metisele din hawai
descolăcesc părul în şuviţe de şopârlă
ca să-l clocesc până va fi fluture cap de mort
în uterul meu de iasomie-n saramură
stă bărbatul care e moartea şi bea tequila
îl zăresc de departe îi fac semn de rămas bun cu năframa
el coboară pe scara rulantă spre mine
apoi aprinde un licurici şi-mi arde părul tăiat
părul ars pentru el pentru moartea mea bărbătească de bărbat.
From: Coma
Publisher: Editura Vinea, București
Publisher: Editura Vinea, București
Poems
Poems of Ruxandra Cesereanu
Close
The flower girl
I think you’re the death who will come disguised as a manbecause death can only be a man
solitary wizened drunken
in no sense is death a woman
not even a superwoman with a perfect body sharp curvaceous
death can only be a man mature with a tarnished sex
the flower girl in me can’t wait to fall into bed with him
the suicidal whale spies him far across the sea
how he sits and sips tequila slowly from a bottle a quarter full
I’m already hooked on him the man with a hangover
abandoned by other women but never delicate or sterile
with the power of darkness the taste of a broken glass
after a night of love I feel him distant like a garland around my hips
as the metis in hawaii uncoil their hair in lizard-like braids
to hatch him until he’s a death’s head moth
the man who’s death and drinks tequila is
in my uterus pickled in jasmine
I spy him from far away and wave goodbye with a handkerchief
he descends toward me on an escalator
then lights up a firefly and burns my hair cropped short
my hair burnt for him for my manly death of a man.
From: Coma
The flower girl
I think you’re the death who will come disguised as a manbecause death can only be a man
solitary wizened drunken
in no sense is death a woman
not even a superwoman with a perfect body sharp curvaceous
death can only be a man mature with a tarnished sex
the flower girl in me can’t wait to fall into bed with him
the suicidal whale spies him far across the sea
how he sits and sips tequila slowly from a bottle a quarter full
I’m already hooked on him the man with a hangover
abandoned by other women but never delicate or sterile
with the power of darkness the taste of a broken glass
after a night of love I feel him distant like a garland around my hips
as the metis in hawaii uncoil their hair in lizard-like braids
to hatch him until he’s a death’s head moth
the man who’s death and drinks tequila is
in my uterus pickled in jasmine
I spy him from far away and wave goodbye with a handkerchief
he descends toward me on an escalator
then lights up a firefly and burns my hair cropped short
my hair burnt for him for my manly death of a man.
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