jueves, 16 de enero de 2020

Menopause


I keep weeding the garden; no blood flows from me.
My partner’s stomach looks like Buda’s.  I have his smile.
From the café the aroma of coffee reaches me; 
I taste the dirt covering my hands.
I am a good companion; I cook, clean and care for. 
I have nowhere to go in which to wear my red high heels. They sit forgotten in a box.
He stabs my hand with his fork; it’s just another memory.
I laugh with freedom.
Overweight women crowd my genes.  I eat aubergine´s and paint my nails purple.
If you could go back, they ask, what age would you choose?
Eight.  I do not hesitate.

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