the precious things

memories aren’t bric-a-bracs, but little treasures,
the sacred precious things the girl keeps in the chest
like her first zero bra she wore on her girlish breast
too small to show but too womanish to feel grown-up
tell me, man, doesn’t she feel them precious?
doesn’t the girl feel a woman?

like her first bleeding, left on the white cotton sheet,
crying to mother: “Mommy, I’m dying!”, she’s trying
not to be soiled, not to be spoiled by becoming
mature, she touches her belly with palpable thrill
tell me, man, doesn’t she feel a mother a bit
earlier than she will?

like her first lover, flowers with pestles and stamens
she expires sugar – he keeps her smell on his tongue
look, lovely Icarus raising your wings to the sun,
the sunrays melt paraffin your cherry is safe in
tell me, man, doesn’t she feel a female
she cums, doesn’t she see the heaven?

like one more cigarette, constantly pinched by her lips,
nets of its smoke for shattered splinters to gather,
passion has gone – she’s a nude with her porcelain leather
the girl’s precious things – the last she’s keeping the most
tell me, man, doesn’t she feel like a piece,
one of her killed universe?

like her young daughter playing with mother’s things,
the girl borrows her tricks, taking her shoes to try on,
look their using the same precious things in common,
their hatred of males, licking their wounds like a hound
tell me, man, don’t you think
if the precious things going round?

20 мая 2010