deep winter…

deep winter
unopened love letters
in the fire

 

cuore dell’inverno
lettre d’amore sigillante
dentro il fuoco

 

 

*draped in shadows
my body
on top of his

 

coperto di ombre
il mio corpo
sopra il suo

 

 

*manic depression
I walk through
foxfire

 

depressione bipolare
cammino attraverso
la bioluminescenza

 

 

**the last notch
on the doorframe
twilight

 

l’utima tacca
sullo stipite della porte
chiaro di luna

 

Published in Incense Dreams 1.3 – edited and translated by Lucia Fontano

*Editor’s Choice – in the Cave of Resilience (grotta della resilienza)

**Editor’s Choice – in the Haiku Cave (grotta dello haiku)

flash: Red

In my wardrobe there is one great oddity: a red fleece nightdress with Scottish Terriers going this way and that all over it. Most everything else in my closet is unobtrusive, passive if you will. Consequently, this strange garment sits in my closet like an out of place exclamation mark. My mother would have loved it. She was a flamboyant woman with bizarre taste. A paisley French scarf with a zebra striped shirt wouldn’t have been the slightest bit unusual. The winter after her passing, in the curious state that grief proved itself to be, I remember being fixated on the idea of purchasing a nightdress. I had never owned one before and it became almost a frantic necessity to have one. While scrolling through various styles online I came across that particular print. Oh, the sly smile and chuckle it elicited. It was the antithesis to my state of being. I don’t know why, years later, it sits in my closet, unworn and mostly forgotten, except that it reminds me that maybe there might be a little of my mother in me after all.

 

*this is a piece of flash memoir that was published back in October on the blog Lost Paper curated by Zee Zahava, editor of brass bell: a haiku journal

matricharcy

*TW: the following content contains references to sexual abuse

 

she tells me
the size of his penis
hello puberty

 

breakfast with grandma
the trust fund
stays open

 

ballet every day
her pipe dreams
in me

 

playing Brahms
her sincerity
off-key

 

ptsd
the echo
of her laughter

 

french tipped nails
waiting in line
behind her priorities

 

nakedness
I always knew
they were fake

 

daily backrubs
she teaches me
how to moan

 

personality disorder
I cannot escape
her shadow

 

post-mortem
my children
out of her reach

 

Scryptic Magazine: a magazine of dark art – edition 1.3 December 2017

hindsight

motherly advice
she asks
if I’ve tried quaaludes

 

new boyfriend
I move down a number
on her speed dial

 

wedding day
my mother’s dress
more low-cut than mine

 

another sex talk
too weak
to slit my wrists

 

new porsche
her vanity plate
misspelled

 

chemotherapy
I learn the ways
I’ve failed

 

narcissism
even her death
my fault

 

Failed Haiku: A Journal of English Senyru – Issue 24

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