The Confession Letters (1)

It’s still raining,
my father has not yet arrived,
my father always gets home late,
and my mother’s brooding over this thought:
is it possible to climb all these stairs up and down
but not melt fat?

My mother’s brooding.

I have been a bad girl,
I have thrust down my life into a well,
an invisible cord
to drag out lovers one by one,
ordaining them like the young prophet Joseph;
I have been a bad girl
for turning  into Jonah’s whale,
Jesus’ breath,
Moses’ dragon,
Kaiser’s eternal water,
and a futile hand splitting the moon in two.
Damn!
I wish I had never performed miracles!
Are ants in need of wonders
to become believers of light, sound, and air?

I have been a bad gird,
never becoming a Cinderella
(what an embarrassment!) ,
and never losing a crystalline shoe
by the golden palace of a fortunate prince;
I have undoubtedly been a bad girl
because bad girls
run after the silver horses of the moon
barefoot on barbwires and do not let out a sigh,
because bad girls
perceive the nature of all mirrors,
cleansing away the layers of mercury
through their breaths
until the revelation of the glass,
the breakable glass,
like humans all shattering away,
if you look them straight in the eye
(their gods too shatter
if you look them straight in the eye,
their gods too shatter
and collapse down on earth:

the cosmic law of awareness
is always regulated by storms).

My mother’s brooding,
my father comes home
picking out the unripe apples
from his paper bag,
placing them in front of my locked-in mouth,
sounding like:
hello, hello, hello, hello, hello…

I have been a bad girl,
with only one single silence
for all my good-byes.