Obsessions

When you die, I won’t be there
To keep your feet warm
Between my antiquated breast
To recite poems dedicated
To the living air and say:
“Your legs, your lies
The tufts of your hair, all so well made!”
But when you die you’ll find me
Having carpeted long ago
The corridor leading to the next room – life
With my ancient flesh.
My whisper will welcome you saying:
Look what a magic thing
The body is, even one beaten by darkness
How sacred tears are
When shed for what you never experienced…
“Make room” you’ll say to me when you die.
“Make room for me to sit,
I like this flowerbed
You chose to wait for me
I like the green chaos.
How did we use to call this back on earth?
Unfulfilled something?
Love?”

Katerina Anghelaki Rooke

(Picture: At the Music Hall Loie Fuller, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec)