you cut a piece of my hair it curls between your index finger and your thumb in the distance silhouetted against the snow knotted kerchiefs the dress of a woman who insinuates herself on people’s skin like mold on walls in the little house hidden by oak trees in the unmade bed where every night you sleep alone I listen to the mineral eyes of a saint while between your palms the Little Prince plays with white plumes signs that birds exist the winter buries us deep in the ground dissolved our bodies gestate until the birth of spring when on the top of an unspoken hill you and I will bloom into two trees whose fruit will feed the children of the world
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Happy Holidays to all my followers. May your 2021 be fabulous. Love Gabriela
Scents of linden trees illuminated by an old oil lamp. The night is me. I am the night where love delights dwell. Shed you skin and come with me where minutes melt like chocolate on the tongue of a child. You, sweetness from beyond the body, what can one say about you?
love strikes like the Mistral in Saint-Tropez winds, hallucinations of pianos, decide to howl in D major enigmas move inside the wombs incubations murmur under the phases of the moon bewitched, allegories of love raise odes to exasperated nudes a prophet gazes at a virgin sybil whose liquid eyes foretold our love in gold reflections, lava of our souls, a mirror hangs itself onto the wall in the red room a phoenix rises our bodies drown into the liquid time of the Mediterranean amor, amore, mon amour the splendid flesh of a gestating poem washes our singular and frenzied souls
amore colpisce come il maestrale nei venti di Saint-Tropez, allucinazioni di pianoforti decidono di ululare in re, enigmi maggiori muovono dentro l’intimo: mormorio, incubazioni sotto le fasi della luna stregate allegorie d’amore sollevano ondine a nudi esasperati un profeta guarda una vergine sibilla i cui occhi liquidi predissero il nostro amore nei riflessi dorati, lava delle nostre anime, uno specchio appeso al muro nella stanza rossa una fenice solleva i nostri corpi affogati nel tempo liquido del mediterraneo amor, amore, mon amour la splendida carne di un poema in gestazione lava le nostre anime singolari e frenetiche
My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie. Nobody understood why. Mama believed that Marie was the secret name of his mother who was an actress. As far as I know my grandmother’s name was Lucrecia, and she was no actress. She was born into a religious family. Her uncle was a bishop. I have no idea how Mama came up with this story about my grandmother being an actress and having a secret name.
I cannot write anymore. If you want me to do it, you will have to lock me in the library. Only there silences become words, and words become soft and puffy like two humongous winter breasts glowing in the last rays of a sweet and sticky sunset.
Yesterday, I got lost in the sacrality of the winter carnival with its colors and aromas of musicality, and its hands of poetry extended to the moon and beyond.
Oh, no, you locked the library door.
I start knotting the thin rosy bodies of the quiet words that make the four thousand volumes that reside in here. An aerial bridge extends over the world. Dressed in a full-moon regalia, I walk on it. Around me birds amalgamate the winds of the North with those of the South. I see stars floating on the seas. Blue meadows wave to me.
I cry. My tears reach the earth, and each and one of them grows into a new poem.
I love how you dress for weddings: the repetitive movements of your fingers when you knot your bow-tie and that splendid nakedness of the white rose on your lapel, a true nuditas virtualis that makes me dream of the birth of a god in the zodiacal sign of Virgo.
I miss the glow of your face in the candlelight, the vibration of the wine glass’ crystal stem between your fingers, the memorable tunes of the waltz coiling around your senses.
It is dark. I lay on the sofa and the smell of pain killers and sedatives dwells in my nostrils. I can hear the noise of the withered leaves coming from outside. It frightens me. The sweetness of the nuditas virtualis fades away. I think of Emma Bovary, the so-called narcissistic self-deluded character, the adulterous woman, the daydreamer, the nuditas criminalis par excellence.
How pathetic and enslaved by time our judgments are. If Emma were a man, she would have had the masculine license to thirst for the feminine. No judgements would have been passed. There is no masculine equivalent of Emma Bovary in literature. Profoundly telling, don’t you think?
Emma committed the mortal sin of having affairs. She killed herself as self-punishment, we are told. How ignorant people who think so are. Turn the page and think of Emma as the woman who pitied the birth of her own daughter. Have you ever stopped to think why she would do that?
Those winds and the frightening noise of the withered leaves.
Where are you?
You do not visit anymore. You forgot your white rose on the head on my sofa. I need to tell you again. I love how you dress for weddings.
