Poetry for her

I gave her two books.
Both are about miracles and faith
and things people don't dare to believe
anymore because our feet are always
anchored in another slice of despair.

She got happy and nervous
and as she talked, I noticed her words would fail her.
It seemed to me her thought was too fast for her tongue.
I sat by her side, staring at her tremendous effort
to become what she once was, asking myself why.

Suddenly she said:
"I won't teach Physics and Chemistry anymore,
just Portuguese and Mathematics."
I said: "Yeah, you need a break.
It's gonna be better if you don't work so much"
And we stayed there for some time,
forgetting the present as if we could plan the future.
But the future was already drawn
without her permission.

I still wait for a miracle just like those
we see in books and churches inhabited
by stone angels. I was told it is progressive.

-She said: "I'm well. Wanna go home."-

She doesn't know but I look up to her.
I don't know if it is right to reveal my secret right now,
right when more than twenty or more years have gone by.
Wish I could understand why life is lulled by death.

What I feel is that the world is getting smaller
as I grow old.
The knowledge of finitude keeps devouring me,
showing my limitation as my cells get tired
and I lose my past.

But she is still here and it is all that matters.

Karla Bardanza
For my aunt.

http://karlabardanzapoems.blogspot.com
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http://poeticpostcards.blogspot.com