Memories of a Winged Cat
A thousand years ago, I was a winged cat,
climbing the facades of clothing stores,
eating donuts while solving crossword puzzles.
A thousand years ago, I sneezed loudly
on the steps of the White House,
and a shooting star inside replied,
"God bless you."
I love to imagine it sitting around
a table of five hundred moons.
A thousand years ago,
I used to collect shiny earrings
for orphans of every era.
And back then,
I spied on the heroes of historical tales
through a window in the seventh heaven.
I was just a one-eyed cat
writing poetry on the surfaces
of undiscovered planets.
If I Were Still Living on the Surface of Mars
If I were still living on the surface of Mars,
I would feed the rabbit hiding in my chest
an abundance of lettuce soaked in purple rainwater.
And then, my dear rabbit would run away, as usual,
to pluck the cheeks of the clouds
and weave them into a garland of roses around my waist.
No one plants garlic on the surface of Mars,
which is why I consider myself the happiest woman in the world.
After all, no one pays taxes either.
We have all become accustomed to weaving our dreams
from the whiskers of cats and the feathers of angels.
If I were still living on Mars,
I would have watched my grandmother longer
as she braided her hair,
feeding the tiny larvae escaping from the sleeves
of her translucent gown.
I would have given all the ants crawling on my body
colorful wings,
so they could dive deep into the cosmos
and transform into something else.
I would have thrown my uncle's magical cloak
over the mountain where I wrote my last poems,
and waited a little to see it turn into a snake
or a barrel of honey.
If my feet were still touching the surface of Mars,
I would have told it all the jokes
humans have invented on Earth.
The Mole of the Widow's Womb
I know a widow with a mole the size of a continent above her womb.
Every morning, I walk behind her, just like the townspeople do.
They carry telescopes to see her mole up close,
chasing after her with carnations and mirrors.
I tell my grandmother I’m afraid her womb will swallow us.
My grandmother blows cigarette smoke in my face,
wishing for peach fruits to grow at the tip of my nose.
We circle around her enormous mole, trying to sneak a glance inside.
“It’s a miracle!” the barber shouts.
The widow extends her hand like a bridge.
Half of her tongue is made of date paste, the other half of papyrus.
Children run to the first half; the elderly cling to the second.
Now the hour of hallucination begins,
and everything we once called reality becomes fantasy.
The Witch Who Sleeps in My Palm
A fingertip-sized witch sleeps in my palm.
She toys with the lines of my destiny,
occasionally coughing and snoring.
"I tell her, 'Hush!'"
She frowns, trying to grab my eyelashes
to make a ladder to the heavens.
I see her rolling up her sleeves
to cook for five orphaned ants.
“May the Lord bless them,”
the witch says,
before drifting back to sleep
among the lines of my palm,
soaked in pulse and sweat.
The Ghost Who Sings Sinatra
I am now conversing with a ghost who died and returned to life.
It’s not scary; he sits comfortably on my late father's favorite sofa,
wearing his glasses and clutching the last coin he had.
The ghost whistles every time I ask him about my father.
He says that the dead are better off than we are,
for we still worry, wage wars, and eat onions and garlic.
I reach out to him, asking,
does my father still smile?
Does he remember our names? I mean, the names of his children and his wife?
I ask him what happened after he closed his eyes forever.
Did he wake up in another place?
Did his heart transform into a butterfly?
The living dead ghost whistles and then points to a deep opening
inside his throat.
I lean closer, trying to peek inside.
I see a garden with empty benches and a huge gorilla body covered in pink.
The ghost sings in the voice of Frank Sinatra,
as the sugar cubes melt from his lips.
I take a piece of it, and then it takes me away to where my father is sitting.
