Poezie
Beige
2 min lectură·
Mediu
They live in a room of macramé and china
Grandmother\'s knitting cashmere and fates
Her eyes lighten air with a pretense of wisdom
Her agelessness hypnotizes each atom of dust
Lulling them into slumber…
Her wrinkles fracture her face in uneven segments of flesh
Slices that drain on the shirt she\'s preparing
For gentlemen-callers as old as the fairies
Whom she had taught the little one manners for
The manner of fear, the pearl in her dowry…
Her lovely ballerina, so well-behaved,
Always sitting on the side of an armchair
Thinking some beau with a tweed hat
And a fat bouquet in his left arm
Would love her for that…
The air is cluttered with cupboards that smell
Like wood in its terminal phase
Moths fret around, a little limp now
Never turned into butterflies
Ignorant of the test they failed
In respect to a natural course of becoming.
The room is obscured by the beige paint on its windows
The walls are damp and the velvet is shriveled
But she\'s still keeping her hands polite on her knees
Trying to hear a knock on the door,
A knock her grandmother had always prepared her for
The man with the hat and the white sheet
The man who would court her
The man would vow never to kiss her.
And so she sits on her armchair, toying with china
Fearing the door and strangling the sparks
Not knowing the fact that their house has no backyard,
Its synonymies failing to sprawl in a world that derides them,
But it\'s placed instead in the town\'s pile of trash
Around the spot where everyone throws their holed socks.
Go to sleep, my beautiful lily
The grandmother mumbles serenely,
And so she obliges, at peace with her pillows,
She falls into slumber, time she elopes;
Salt slips from the ceiling and covers her gently:
She falls asleep afraid of that knock
Unwitting she failed to arrive on her date.
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