The Other Man’s Woman #Glass Lovers (excerpt)


“Clara, Jacques is in love with you!”

At 4 am in the morning calling from Bruges Miguel was beyond angry when he spoke.


“The entire evening Jacques talked only about you!  It was like Miriam and I were not even there!

Clara, do you have an inkling how it feels to listen to another man, describing for hours the women that you love? Your dress, the violet one made from taffeta, your estate diamond ring, the way you turn your head, the flares of your eyes, even your knees a bit closer than they should be when you walk, the fullness …”


I did not listen anymore. A pale moon was shedding its poisonous light on our bed; ghosts of Miguel and I making love still buried in the warmth of the peachy sheets.


I walked to the wardrobe. I took out my taffeta violet dress.  I started cutting it furiously: bit by bit, piece by piece.  From each piece the perfume that Jacques bought me for my birthday was permeating my lungs, crawling on my skin, poisoning my eyes.

Why did it happen? Why?


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 


i wish #poetry


i wish

i had the talent of the poet

who once wrote

Calm down, my Sorrow,

We must move with care.


I’ll have the shadow

of the autumn

when you’ll


like a seagull

heaving upward

an aching


choking call.


prompt: inscrutable


“Calm down, my Sorrow, We must move with care.”, Charles Baudelaire, Meditation

Painting: Paul Delaroche, The Young Martyr


Rain-forest Dreams #Glass Lovers


Aroma of cherry cigars permeates the room.


Miguel’s tensed body lies against the bedroom door; his eyes closed; his jaw taut; perspiration trickling on his golden skin.


I continue reading Jacques’ candid letter:

“Clara, I saw you through the window of my soul. I cracked the window to inhale you from afar; to get drunk in your freesia scented hair. Just for a moment.  A whirling wind blew in intoxicating scents of the rain-forest: palms filled with sweet red berries, enormous wimba trees fogged in ancient legends, raindrops of violet orchids; anacondas coiling on the soil. I choked. I couldn’t help it, Clara!”


I stop. Grief.

Miguel’s eyes open; forgotten green clouds and thunder foment inside.

I walk toward him. Slowly I start unbuttoning his shirt.  My lips touch his humid skin. He does not move. His breath accelerates, his eyes stare into nowhere. Filled with pain, his voice resonates inside me.

“I love you.”


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

  • wimba trees are among the tallest tress in the Amazon Rain-forest.

i am love #poetry


i am the soul

of the unknown

the one

who locked the mystery

of number Pi

within your heart

the one

whose life

was saved

from stoning by

his words

the Desdemona

that Othello couldn’t kill

the Guinevere that Lancelot

had loved

i am the agile hands

that you allow

to spread

Moroccan oil

onto your skin

in moonless nights


i am love.


Agonizing Nights #Glass Lovers


A whole week.

Seven agonizing nights; seven suffocating nights rushing over me, parching my soul with their torrid breezes.

Myriads of mosquitoes murmuring in the dark, looking for prey: my own flesh, my own blood.

Nights extending their heavy tentacles over the city, strangling it as a venomous octopus; abandoning it at sunrise lacking vigor, emptied of hopes, filled with trash.


I am getting out of bed. Lace and silk soaked in perspiration, glued to my heated body. I am looking out of the window.  I cannot see you.


In this city clocks have no hands, years have no months, months have no days.  Outside of time, the city is innocent, perverse, philosophical, suicidal. You will have to find a loophole to live here without surrendering your soul.


Shadows of your eyes; fragments of your voice hidden inside me. I cannot see you. It’s dark.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers