When Sylvie and I are six
we eat jambula till our tongues turn indigo
then we travel home with night licking our heels.
In the morning, our foreheads still anointed
in violet blessings, we twine our stick-arms around its branches
and stuff banana fibre dolls in the hollows of its roots.
We swaddle make-believe babies in grass-blankets
and check on them between bouts of hide and seek.
Now we are twenty six, in a cafè on a tree-lined street
we sit over Caesar salad and white wine
and Sylvie raises her ring finger to the sun,
“These hands wash his boxers.” And I see
a high priestess in a harem
where wives are judged by how well
they wash skid marks off their husband’s underwear
by how fervently they pray away the cum from his encounters
with sharp-breasted-round-hipped girls.
Sylvie will elect for C-Section to stay tight
her baby will feed on a bottle, her breasts will stay
and I, remain
watching her mauve-stained soles, matte black lipstick
that will not bleed. Even after drinks.
Maybe she bleeds in other ways.
Link to the Italian version