I’m running away with my breasts
to Barcelona, the Canaries.
They’ve a fancy for some seafront life,
fisherman, local wine.
I’m leaving no more of them at the hospital.
I understand the lump now,
how the cells got together
in a crescent like a young moon,
a smooth-sea boat, a hammock.
All these symbols of longing:
if I had taken notice
they could not have taken shape.
terça-feira, 22 de setembro de 2009
Publicada por Ricardo de Magalhães à(s) terça-feira, setembro 22, 2009