I am my mother’s daughter – short prose by Gabriela Marie Milton
I am not who you think I am. My loves are the result of my interiorities in which meanings lie. “Outside” is an illusion. I do not seek the attention of the cup bearer. I am the cup bearer.
It was evening. I was five years old. Mama wore a beautiful dress, pale lines of fresh green dripping on her body. Curves, rose scents, pearled skin. She looked ravishing.
Phlegmatic look on his face Papa smoked Arturo Fuente cigars. He said: That dress is too short.
Mama did not answer. She entered the house. I followed her. She went in the yellow room. The room had a large French tapestry on the left wall. She took a pair of scissors and cut her dress shorter.
The next morning, she looked even more ravishing.
The thought came to me in the afternoon. A big smile appeared on my face. I ran into my room and took out all my little dresses from the wardrobe. Armed with a scissor, I proceeded to the terrace. One by one I cut all dresses trying to make them shorter. I was ecstatic. I thought of how happy Mama would be. I swear I saw the roses dancing in the garden.
I am my mother’s daughter. My sweet love, should I cut my dress shorter?
Congratulations to my fellow editors of the Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Romanian, and other editions of Gobblers/Masticadores on their performances.
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Summer sunsets with their cruel debaucheries of orange and purple. Concentrated scents of saffron and roses in the hallways. Dates filled with marzipan. I crave sweetness like I crave you.
Nightmares. A sailor drowned a cat at sea. Someone paid him to do it.
I cannot breathe anymore.
Last night in one of the upstairs bedrooms the child’s toys changed places. A candle lit by itself.
I do not wish you were here. I am beyond that. My blood flows in the opposite direction. I am the plenitude of my febrilities. I am incandescent.
Remember that scene from Jane Eyre? Bertha: beautiful, exotic, insane, locked in a room. Bertha whom Rochester married in Jamaica. Every time he tried to open the door she would rush to tear him apart. Why am I thinking Bertha?
I can see you walking in the streets of another continent. I can hear your murmurs by the sea.
I still cannot breathe.
My darling, “will you still be loving me when the summer is gone?”
There are several new poems up at MasticadoresUSA. Please visit the site here and support your fellow poets. Do not forget to follow the site.
I suspect I am subject to hallucinations. I see a woman wrapped in a Cashmere checkered shawl talking to a dead person. The metaphors she uses are stolen, and her heavy makeup reminds me vaguely of a harlequin. Perhaps the shawl projected its sick personality into her, or perhaps she regressed to an infantile state under my very eyes.
She looks like a lacerated doll attached to one of Cuixar’s canvases.
Did you talk? Are you here?
My love, yesterday I read your poems. Your spellbound words reclaimed my very existence. Letters fell into my cupped palms. From the mirror the contour of your body – textured like ripened mangoes under a third eclipse of the moon – entered my world. Your words adapted to my lips. They absorbed the piano’s euphoria with its marvelous rhythmicity. Our happiness became imperative like the birth of a child at 39 weeks.
Today I am back – albeit sedated – inside the ambivalence of my own introspections swinging from one site to another like the Kirby Cove swing above the Pacific Ocean.
I do not see the woman anymore, but I can still see the dead person. The throbbing pain of Cuixar’s paintings and your absence become unbearable.
When I do not cry myself to death, I pretend you are here.
@Gabriela Marie Milton
A new beautiful poem is now up at MasticadoresUSA.
In times of fortune and misfortune I am always at the mercy of silence. Perhaps because I was born on an island where seldom does anything happen.
Yesterday the water and the light invaded my tongue’s buds, and I was forced to look at myself upside down. I could see the splendor of a naked butterfly ready to mate. Do you know for how long do two butterflies stay together? Sixteen hours. The exact time we spent together in the silence of the island.
Suspended in the between times neither of us moved. No cosmic sacrifice happened. No driving force was brought to life. No blood interfered between …. please continue reading at MasticadoresUSA.
My Dear Readers, My pieceDematerialization (by Gabriela M) runs first for Publication of the Month at Spillwords Press. Will you please vote for me? You do not need a Spillwords account to vote. You can vote using your Facebook or Twitter account. The window that opens below allows you to do so.
I can see the woman who assumes things. Every night she picks the flowers that I throw on the road: withered lilies of the valley. She wants to be me. She wants my blood. She does not know I rearranged the bell-shaped whites so no one else can breathe their sweet scents. No one else can be me. No one else can make you, you.
The woman puts the withered flowers in her bag.
A new moon rises over her left shoulder. Bad luck.
I rush to protect her.
Before he died my father said:
If you try to do justice to the wicked, you will forget to do justice to the virtuous. And if you forget to do justice to the virtuous you only work for yourself. That is the biggest sin of all.
It was a sort of dematerialization that left behind the scent of orange blossoms and the vague memory of sultry afternoons growing by the margins of the pond: those afternoons in need for seed germination. I am sure you can remember them.
You and your love for me which have always looked for my blood. I told you I am air and therefore I do not have a body. I fill the space in which other bodies manifest themselves.
I am every breath you take in your nights of love when …please continue readinghere