Memorycemetery

The fat woman is shouting about History
she launches sharp sentences
like a slice of tin.
In roofs made of silver
by lubricating skies,
the fat woman hangs smiles
on a butcher’s hook
while she puts fetuses into a pile.

She says that a knife in the flesh
hurts less than nothing in the flesh,
that the stock exchange will became moss
and sand will cover the hungry,
that from the cloned rose to the bank
there is tight wire, which crosses the dreams
of every poor child.

The fat woman
swimming between the glasses of the drunkards
with her dress made of smoke
of the infinite burning
which maintains things alive,
her voice echo of a claim
between the unheard and the unsaid,
improvised postphilosophy for a new era
the one that predicts inspired moments.

Waiting

she sticks her nail on every stalk
leaving in the corners
slit open insects
and tearing out dry landscapes
from the newspaper photos
which will run to the sea
like abandoned objects.

Silvia

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