The information she (believes) receives from childhood
is that a woman desires complete (invincible) men
because full of circumstance. She is armed (with words).
On the table ahead, the man’s belly is against everything
In a red shirt (gray shorts and dark running shoes).
He explains he goes out with women for money.
Her coffee is getting cold because she can’t stop looking.
In her fantasies, it is women who receive something in exchange
for their bodies. She is being followed by them, all the time.
There, sitting under a tree which cries branches of green
Leaves, she is hidden behind a grey stripped suit,
With a red scarf in the buttonhole.
It is a red mouth stamped in an outdoor over the bridge
Which creates the possibilities of saying (say it)
words ignored because not sent: why do you run away from me?
The woman from the port of Vancouver is the promise
of desire and what time does with it. The wind moves
through solitude and fantasy.
He walks towards the outdoor pool
with the certainty the investment will cost him.
He read earlier: castration is the name given to the experience
Of contact with the lack in the other,
without the illusions of completion.
But he don’t really know her. She arrived and left like a ship.
In the romantic film, the man searches for the virgin woman
And the colourful marriage is guaranteed. Outside the official story,
the heroine likes other women in the silence of the house.
The sad child, hostage of her own sexuality,
Has ghosts of crucifixes, high heels, and guilt
That surround love and sex.
In the romantic story, the man seems to fulfill all her wishes.
Outside it, the woman questions the existence of this man,
And what, exactly, he wants?
On the road, the trajectory reminds her mother’s body (imagined).
The dress she wore delineated her waist. She leaned against
her belly button and extended her small hand to touch her.
She caressed her head, carefully.
In the kitchen, she cuts an apple in the middle (to quiet her mind).
The fruit creates echoes of other fruits, who think and afflict her.
The flavour is sweet, and masticated, creates a line in the middle of her forehead.
In the bus stop, she collects yellows numbers printed line 22,
yells in the throat that live inside her body, in the intimacy
of things one can’t look fixedly for too long.
Death, sun, and a profoundly immoral tale.
A poem is made by pieces of residues that don’t fit
inside one most simple reality. Or would it be the most complicated?
Sometimes I have the impression that the other and I are separated
By hundreds of pieces being remade at every instant.
The woman’s bag has rose buttons unbuttoned. The waiting room is crowded.
He’s standing, searching for a way out. Is it a stain or a painting with too many keys
and just one keyhole?
The therapist waits. His wrinkled suit indicates that mornings are rushed.
“Do you have anything to say to your wife?” The man asks.
“I didn’t come here to confess,” he affirms.
While she speaks about marriage, his wife notices he’s anxious
and defends himself with clues and evidence.
Your phone showed text messages.
She can’t stop imagining his hands with hers, and the words,
and the promises, marry me? I love my wife.
The truth has many layers, and she wants it printed
in her quotidian. She needs to be convinced
many times of her happiness.
You’re very quiet. In the end, he denies everything and complains about the silence.