Her poetics

Behind the door, she waits for more.
it is an urge
the thing not given
is always the most wanted.

floating red roses
reduce and expand
her heart
because they are
and aren't there.

a shower of petals
shapes the sofa
and the cushions.
the arms of the clock
hold her shadow.
something floods her eyes
with joy:
a pink elephant flies,
Pablo Neruda waves.
he is waiting too

she follows him,
tracing words in the air:
the moment is an enigma
that joins mars with venus.

but it is not enough.
she waits.
she struggles between white and blue,
feeling what you feel
but you feel nothing
and everything.

she dwells under the books,
Anne Sexton always falls
in her lines.
she waits.

could you hide her
from the moon?
do you have salt
on your tongue?
she wants to kiss
you
should write on her poetic body

she waits for more
like a hungry dog.

karla bardanza