WHAT SHE SAID FROM HER CORNER

“First of all men, many and by chance, and not by myself,
and sometimes not just one,” she said. Her voice was vivid and she paused
just to remember, as if she let this detail slip
or that, or else one could recall at once
all that was seen, or touched, the light that came then this way
or another, the words that surely followed, they always do,
trying to hinder, urge or to conceal. “And then – women.”
But it's all gone. “It’s all gone. So many bodies. Just
a blinding glow is left on the retina as after
staring at the sun for far too long. And nothing more.”
Through the windows tall trees were seen. Her face,
moving forth and back, what she said rising from her corner,
withholding nothing, like faceless droves. Her hands rested
in her lap, her collar fully buttoned, all
buttoned up. That body of hers inside her clothes, before me,
her hair in braids. I said nothing to her.
And at the window stood the naked trees, which nothing stops from
blossoming over and over again and blossoming, when
the time comes and they please. “I'm thirsty,”
she said and rose and on her leg
there was a note of darkened bruising, like the soft blows
inside the fruit, ripe on the bough's edge, expecting soon
to drop, untouched by hand, pure, onto the ground.

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