III
I don't know whether to lift the nylon that covers my eyelids
when my body squirms in season
daring in milk for my nose twisted in blood
I can foresee the proud fist that discovers me in disgust
thus, the mirror over the foot, pretending strings
why not the dream why not
begging the walls of a warm dead body
my pillow is a lucid beast
wild offspring of an unexisting mind
it is a finger guarded by the eye of the night
a conscious and slow suicide
where my dog eats and I turn into meat
spilled, raw, in the blisters of my birth
the water appeared to me boiled
............................to come out I want
trembling, my throat in pest
because everything breathes
© Yamila Greco
Yamila Greco is Argentinian, and took part with this poem of the first Heptagrama poetry contest.
Arts and expression + Poetry