Emptiness
Ripped curtain with one leaning shoulder. The house has
been empty for days. The mirror is flat in its denial to
reflect emptiness, or the yellow blanket, or the memory of
that body enlarged in the moonlight of that August, touch
after touching the flesh, nails, teeth, lust, the red. The flat
of the mirror, nothing. Only the nails in the wall, from
fallen-off pictures, still gloriously, insist on being a little
golden from the last reflection of the twilight, to appear
in a second depth, always expecting to hang an umbrella,
a hat, a wreath or two carton wings you had put on that
busy night among the crowds, and you were raised
towards the balcony of the tower, where they lit
the colourful fireworks over the metal coffin.
Manolis Aligizakis 