Mother.

It is night. We do not know if the little girl sleeps. The blind is not completely lowered and some of the light from the streetlamps comes through the window. There is another light. The one that seeps through the crack under the door. You can hear the mother in the kitchen. A tap is turned on.

The girl calls.

The mother goes.

I'm cold, she says.

There are blankets in the closet.

The mother does not move.

The girl rests her face in the pillow.

Silence.

We, those from the outside, wonder why the mother, the same one that closed the door so that the light did not bother the girl, the same that goes when the daughter calls her, does not tuck her daughter in, does not traverse the space to the closet door and does not open it, does not bend over to pick up one of the blankets stacked against the background, does not unfold it and lay it on the cold body of the girl.

Big men have big dreams

You want to live in a big city
work for a big company
and earn lots of money
to spend in your big big city
or in you PP girl
(Perfectly Pretty)

You want to travel the world
and visit even bigger cities
to spend even bigger amounts of money
to please your PP girl

You want to make your mother cry
everytime you step into a plane and cross the sea
to live in a big city
to work for a big company
to meet your PP girl
without even looking back
without even realising
it is not your mother the only one that cries.

Present Past.

I open my eyes and it is no longer this year. I am still 21. This is my 21-year-old body, I can swear it: my hair is long and dyed, I don’t have spots on my face, my breasts are grown. I get up and I see my mother in the kitchen. She is making coffee. She smiles and her wrinkles deepen like abysses of time. Yet, it is no longer this year. She looks fifty as if it was the day before; as if today was still this year and not what it really is: a normal day seven years ago. She talks: we’re going to the village, to spend there all the summer. We’re leaving in the afternoon. My sister and I pack in silence. My boy must be waiting for me. It’s time for our first kiss. 

Bitten nails, broken hearts.

You said I will be braiding your bride's hair on your wedding day,
that  I will crown her head with a wreath
and her waist with some expensive pearl belt.

And I answered that it will not only be your bride,
that I was also  meant to braid your descendants,
to prepare them for their happy lives,
to make you proud of your mistakes.

...

i will create you again

here within this body that is not your body

which does not even look like it

and I will love you again

time after time

in different wholes

under different names

but it will be you

always you

expressed

in different versions

another eye colour

another way of pronouncing the “r”

of saying disyllabic words

of brushing my hair away

Some nights

Some nights I find myself
thinking that you probably think of me
from time to time.
For example, a Sunday, it rained,
and you have wet
feet,
toes,
black hairs on the phalanges
cold yellow nails.
Then you sit on bed
- ninety centimeters and blue quilt -
and you take off your shoelaces
slowly
and think of me
slowly
calling my name
- Alba -
slowly.

All your life depends on where I put my lips when I start kissing you.