Through the skin of an ink
June 2018
I effuse into the
voice of your breath,
not only in words,
not only in sighs.
I dissolve
upon your pores
like an ink,
(a milk gone blue)
melting out
of a broken stylograph,
like a livid stain,
like a clumsy sentence.
I turn towards a butterfly,
jumping along her flight
and you think that She
drags me away from you;
me, drying in shame upon your remark
I am losing my blueness,
I succeed notto show to you
(to draw to you)
the awakening
their instantaneous,
Beauty.
Then, I try to wash my knees,
to vanish inside the lake,
to dissolve soundlessly,
like a pollen through the wind,
not to bring weight upon you,
like the murmur of the leaves
covering
the fusion of our palms.
And yet, I resent inside myself,
rebelling against my apathy,
my shameful
dirty fragility,
my brazen cowardice?!
How easy it is to lose the axis,
the structure of physical presence!
My lightness becomes
your burden built by silences.
I fondle the stones around us,
striving to build a column out of me,
strong enough
to hold our fragile pergola;
and yet, how can I possibly acknowledge
the speech of the surrounding ivories,
birds, cells, body partitions?
You are rising
like a solid rock
with a mathematically precise irregularity
towards the roofs of your closed future.
I am falling along your ascent
like a waterfall
with a feminine noise,
lithe as the Wind
trembling between the two of us.
This wind sculpts
a living Home
for birds, fishes,
butterflies, ivories,
and we remain windfully
to build an ever-changing cave
with disproportionately carved rooms;
me-pouring a cold love upon you,
caressing you by drizzling,
by flowing;
you-keeping stillness, bitterly,
like a steep porous stone,
soaked by a water canopy.
Ljubljanski Grad, 7.6.2018
[i]Cupid Playing With A Butterfly. Antoine-Denis Chaudet, 1763, Paris.
Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. Antonio Canova, 1787, Paris.
[ii]‘The beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all’. Andre Breton, Nadja, 1928, Paris.
Viktorija Bogdanova
