Sunday, November 8, 2015

L'orchidée noctambule a vingt ans

Couverture de la plaquette
C'est ainsi que tout prend un coup de vieux, une patine chérie, pleine de nostalgie, d'un temps que du coup, comme dirait l'autre, les moins de vingt ans ne peuvent pas connaître.

En octobre 1995 paraissait mon premier recueil de poèmes L'orchidée noctambule, titre que j'ai du coup utilisé pour ce blog. Les éditions Press-Stances étaient basées à Bordeaux et dirigées par Frédéric maire, disparu en 2003.

Quelques collaborations à la revue Press-Stances et Frédéric me proposa de recueillir quelques-uns de mes premiers textes dans cette plaquette, deuxième à paraître aux éditions, après celle d'Ali Boutamina Mélancolie, en août de la même année.

Frédéric fut un ami, un réel compagnon de route, l'un des premiers à croire en ce que j'écrivais et à m'ouvrir les portes de la petite presse francophone. J'en ai défoncées d'autres depuis, outre-Atlantique et outre-Manche.

Beaucoup de ces textes sont juvéniles bien sûr et peu ont survécu à ce recueil. L'un d'entre eux fait aujourd'hui parti d'un autre recueil Les chants du malaise publié en 2011 au Chasseur abstrait dans le numéro 73-74 de la RAL,M. D'autres figurent aussi dans le recueil Etranges anges anglais publié chez mgv2>publishing en décembre 2012. D'autres encore font parti d'un recueil resté inédit et qui le restera Remparts sous la lune. Ceci dit tous les poèmes ont été publiés et dans leur traduction en anglais aussi.

Ce recueil c'est aussi l'exil vers la Grande-Bretagne, Bath, et une adresse au-dessus d'un fleuriste, une existence pleine de rencontres et d'opportunités, dont celle avec l'illustrateur de la revue Craig J. McCafferty et son chat au chapeau. Relire le recueil et parcourir les quelques 30 pages qu'il contient, se dire aussi qu'il se vendait pour 25FF, et cette couverture rouge qui fut un temps la marque de fabrique de la revue et des éditions Press-Stances.

24 recueils plus tard, dont une bonne partie en anglais chez IWA après L'orchidée noctambule ou les derniers chez différents éditeurs, il reste de bons souvenirs, mais pas que, et l'impression d'avoir encore un pied au XXème siècle, comme un dinosaure, ou un étranger dans son propre siècle.

Extraits:

Ne plus compter les insomnies
reviendrait à se réveiller
et sous les escaliers pavés
de froid
de ficelle
et de bois
nos engelures se rassasient
en ouvrant nos veines
pleines.

in Remparts sous la lune

Dans la mansarde ténébreuse
l’heureuse Zelda Rissenstein
se caresse le ventre
et les seins

les soldats bruns l’emportent
sur leurs ailes d’acier
dans un wagon de tôle froissée
et sur les rails de l’enfer
le wagon roule, roule encore
son corps
mutilé et atrocité 
des exhalaisons
passagères

le rythme d’équinoxe
solstice de la perte
une fournaise et puis des cendres
Zelda Rissenstein et Cassandre.

in Les chants du malaise

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Saluvas

Saluvas

Today the girls were all wearing their saluvas –
all flying colours and light drapes.
I heard them talk about a wedding
or some fancy celebration.
I had no clues and I still don't know what it meant.
Yet, these dresses
all women wear
there in Mayotte
are like flowers covering bruises and dark pains.
I admired Doulfahou's red suns,
surrounded by black spots running away not to be eaten.
Nassurati – though prettier – was wearing a plain pink
piece of plain cloth.
Yasmina's blue flowers or leaves
danced on the brownish dress she wore.
Faïza's was green with strange shapes
going orange, going purple.
I smiled broadly when I saw Hachimia come in.
She had something closer to a shopping net than a scarf on her head,
covered in bright orange
like a security guard's brace.
Raouanti was an Indian princess –
all salmon pink and eastern pride.
The most beautiful though was Sayra –
she walked like an African queen in her navy blue saluva
constellated with brown petals.

First published in The North Chicago Review, January 2013. Extract from Maore Lapwing Publishing, 2013

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Des cendres dans le cœur...

Des cendres dans le cœur
et un homme à côté
la lune rousse
dans la brousse
des larmes sur les draps
et la rédemption
du mouchoir blanc.
Des yeux couleur d’opale
et l’amour oublié
le soleil rouge
sur la vouge
des gouttes de sueur
sur ma vie
perchée dans l’arbre.
Hé ! cette vie est sauve
fauve et tigresse née
la brousse rousse
la vouge rouge
des larmes de sueur
sur la rédemption
du mouchoir blanc.


Première publication Inédit Nouveau, Belgique, mai 1996

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Poetry collections, chapbooks and ebooks since 2013


"People get tired of social realism, they want fantasy and poetry is romantic fantasy. Reading your Maore poems there is a mixture of brutality, romance and fantasy. They work on the reader's imagination."
Dennis Greig, Lapwing Publications

Maore (From Mayotte) followed by England Suite
Lapwing Publications, Belfast, UK, 2013
http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/
£10, 60 pp 

Buy it here or send me a private message I still have some copies.

****


Clasped

I live in a hot-water bottle
surrounded by waves
surrounded by leaves
surrounded by thieves.

It is like time has stopped
between the Golden Ages
and the Dark Times.

The variegation
cannot erase the suffocation
the breath
the soul
can only see the vapid land
despite
ochres
yellows
oranges
greens
& blues.

The heat
the dampness of the place.
The beating
of the chants.
Drums are on every night.
Dogs bark.
Cats mew
& converge towards where
food or peace are.

I live in a bottle
firmly sealed
full of salt
and dust
rotting inside
& outside.

I live on a boat floating to nowhere
water everywhere

*****


"Succumb to the irresistible mythologies built around the beauty of evil. Surrender to the temptations of the flesh, its vampiric shades, its mouth-watering energy. And submit to the epistolary colour Red: blood, wine, sex, desire, fire...in Walter Ruhlmann’s haunting yet sanguine collection of poetry, CARMINE CARNIVAL." Pasquale Goldberg, editor at Lazarus Media

Carmine Carnival
Lazarus media - Stonethrow Poetry, USA, 2013
Kindle Format here

***

In Another Waiting Room

In the sheltering place I hate to dwell in,
lost on the banks of the Loire river,
the flows are unsafe,
the waters troubled,
icy, wintry air, sun rays above all.

I rang at Hardy's door.
Not the British counterpart of Laurel of course – the time
shifted from this point.
I kept no one else's appointment but mine
for I needed more pills to cure the nightmarish gaps
night knights and knives had carved in this damaged brain of mine – 
I had to avoid suicide.

I laurel this room for its safeness
and quietness,
the light,
the whiteness,
the space – 
frames and spaces follow me everywhere,
even in hell
or on the benches where I sat listening,
dreaming, exercising, contemplating
Bishop's art of drawing
maps and landscapes.

That morning I sat on another bench,
in another waiting room,
waiting for Hardy to come in
and ring my bell, remind me of the hell,
cure me from mental hay
fever and send away all disarray.
I sat opposite this painting
by Russian-French artist Sonia Delaunay – Long Journeys.

Colours and shapes, round and vivid, bright, dazzling,
all these effects drove me back to this place
loophole dreamt – hell hole lived – I even recognized
on the right-hand side
a woman wearing saluvas... red-striped like Sandia's.

Four panels divide the canvas where variegated ghosts
shake hands, dance, pray or swim,
eat papaya, sweets and pizza in the shades of an umbrella.

Through the window I watched magpies fly 
from tree to tree, in search of food, probably.
The magpies back there feast on chelonian offsprings
as they sprout from Saziley.

I watched this leafless tree reminding me of the nervous human system.
Mine is a battle field, a war HQ, a shadow cabinet, a closet where dreams and nightmares copulate.
I watched the roof tops and the tree set on this March morning blue sky,
its clear, light blue lagoon shades invited me once more to dive
in the depths of navy blue memories
darkening my thoughts,
opening my mouth,
starting my youth,
peeling me out.

The heating system started,
I was still staring at the sky 
and in a start watched the closet hiding the beast.
The flame trembling – I could hear it – would lick the erected hair on my arm:
this limb never produces any harm, resting softly and bare on the arm of the chair,
cherishing the feel of the plastic surface.

Hardy came in, my arm lifted me up, and stretched out towards the doctor's hand.
I sat on the opposite chair. He waited for my words to come out.
He expected me to hand him my SS card.
I could still see Sonia Delaunay's art.
Master of painters in my heart.
Maore let me breathe now.
Let me forget you.
Let me live.
Let loose.
Leave
me a
lone.

*****


The Loss followed by GMO (Great Moments of Oblivion) was written during a period of doubts and uncertainties. Life’s events always inspire me. They are my fuel, my muses, my most terrible companions when I sit in front of the digital page to write…One year after two of my previous collections were published Maore (Lapwing Publishing) and Carmine Carnival (Lazarus Media), to have this chapbook published fills me with pride and joy. I know this is the best homage I could give to my father. Not only because most of the poems in this collection are about him, our relationship and the frightening gap his death has brought, but because Great Moments of Oblivion is about food, and that he was a chef and taught me how to enjoy food. ” – Walter Ruhlmann

The Loss followed by Great Moments of Oblivion
Flutter Press, 2014
Paperback, 54 Pages
Price: $8.00

Buy it here

*****


"Walter Ruhlmann is a softie.  Oh, yes he is.  But a hard softie.  He keeps on keeping on, as Curtis Mayfield sings, despite heartbreak and extreme loss.  He knows how to express his sorrow and ennui, but there’s a resilience and lust for life evident in much of his work.  I don’t know how he does it, but Ruhlmann pumps out a lot of poetry each year, without losing his depth and emotional poignancy." From David Herrle's review, published in SubtleTea October 2014 – February 2015 Edition.

Twelve Times Thirteen
Barometric Pressure, Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2014

Free pdf download here

*****


"Walter Ruhlmann’s newest collection Crossing Puddles (© 2015 Robocup Press), is a wonderful and highly pleasurable example of a poet who’s not afraid to explore this complicated transformation through a poetic medium." From Marie Lecrivain's review published in Al-Khemia Poetica

Crossing Puddles
Robocup Press, USA, 2015
77 pages. 
Cost includes shipping to U.S. addresses.
Buy it here

***

Keeping Couched

Behind the red leaves of the tall tree, hiding me from business,
between the TV set and the iridescent five-headed lamp floor,
caresses and feathers, blue wool blanket, dreams of conquests,
for all I know, heroes and foes disappeared long ago.

Many poisons used to help me open doors – spiritual, suicidal –
through which the dark demons descended the padded staircase,
billowing in my skull, floating around the grey inner fence of my head,
the shed sheltering all the gorgeous nightmares, anthracite clouds.

Evaporating under the breath of more dragons that came and sang in unison.
The sulphur perfumed choir blew flames and cinders on my neck,
they decked my skin with scars and bruises, tattooed and wrecked
the last remains of light angels had brought like specks ages ago.

*****


"si vous recherchez des cartes postales pour égayer votre bureau, vous serez sans doute un peu déçus, malgré la présence de quelques illustrations dans le recueil. En effet, Mayotte sert de prétexte à l’introspection et ne laisse pas que des bons souvenirs. Ainsi, vous ne pourrez pas oublier les réalités de ce pays éruptif, et pas seulement au sens propre du terme, puisque hélas, la pauvreté de ses habitants, générant l’instabilité sociale, marque le quotidien des expatriés." Patrice Maltaverne, extrait de la préface.

PMT -- Post Mayotte Trauma
mgv2>publishing, 2015
64pp 5€

Achetez-le ici

***

PMT 1 - mai 2010

C’est dans l’attente, la latence à tâtons,
le soir et le matin, c’est le maton de la prison,
il se pavane et se défait dans un nuage de lait.

Le matelas, bleu, gonflé d’azote et de mazout,
nous suivra jusqu’en enfer.
L’enfer n’est pas encore sous nos semelles, il se mêle
à nos rêves.

Savons-nous d’ailleurs ce qui nous attend vraiment?
Sommes-nous prêts à sauter le pas?

Nous ne le saurons pas
avant
d’avoir atteints
l’autre hémisphère.

*********

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Snow Can Wait # 6 | La neige peut attendre # 6

I counted the tears of a thousand men
and clasped in my arms
they almost suffocated.

My god I feel dizzy
and the ground is giving way
under the weight of the nights
spent with them

I felt weak
today when I think of it
I was rather brave
to have dared to spend
so many nights in the caves full
of violence and absence,
of bodies going into trance.

J’ai compté les larmes d’un millier d’hommes
et serrés dans mes bras
ils ont presque étouffé

mon dieu j’ai le vertige
et le sol se dérobe sous le poids des nuits
passées en leur compagnie

je me suis senti lâche
aujourd’hui quand j’y pense
j’ai été plutôt brave
d’avoir osé passer
tant de nuits dans les caves gorgées
de violence et d’absence
des corps entrant en transe.

English translation first published in Magnapoet. French version first published in Libelle March 1996

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Continuum -- first published in Hirschworth September 2013

The thoughts. The hope. The ludicrous and ravaging expectations. Boundaries have been set and I walked far over the limit. I almost lost myself, I clearly made myself a predator as much as a prey.

Devastating monster he called himself. I think he is more like a tumour, a gangrenous, malignant mass. Calcified yet not impossible to extract.

Already, in a surgical way, I incised the numbers, the pictures and all the words left here and there so as to hide all the shameful secrets from the eyes and the ears of the formidable fairies.

Now there are feelings – the hardest to combat. Like a storm they shatter everything into tiny pieces, they flood all the space I have kept for the one and only, my lovely leprechaun.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

C'est l'heure des beaux mecs... -- paru dans Axolotl printemps 1998

C’est l’heure des beaux mecs. À l’instant, je viens d’allumer ma roulée ; elle me rappelle le petit muret, près du ru, sur lequel je m’asseyais en attendant le bus pour me rendre au magasin. Toujours le même oreiller sous la tête, le même coussin sous les fesses. Un ton grave au téléphone. « Le chien de l’espace » est allé jouer ailleurs sur ma platine laser. Toujours les mêmes souvenirs en tête, avec cet oreiller qui les cajole. Un brin de soufre sur la vie d’un garçon de coton sodomisé un soir de neige par celui de laine. Haine. Paroles faciles qui vrillent mes tympans et l’esprit houleux du mauvais lépreux, ce bon Samaritain qui écoute les Chants Profonds depuis le balcon de son appartement.

C’est l’heure des beaux mecs. Et son ombre, la cherche-t-il toujours ? Moi, je ne suis pas mieux, je ne cherche plus rien. Il a éternué sans prévenir. Il souffle comme un bœuf asthmatique. Les carottes sont peut-être cuites au pays des ermites ? Ca aussi ça te rappelle quelque chose. Pense plutôt à « Mag (Pie) The Cook », ça te rendra puceau pour le restant de tes jours. Et Nikki, et Paul, et Tracey, et Sue, et Pete, et Am... et l’autre là, la putain aux yeux de jasper amer, celle qui s’était faite sorcière de paille pour mieux te terroriser.

Tu n’as plus ses dessins pour te tenir compagnie ni orner ta vie. Et alors ? Alors ! Ils valaient peut-être de l’or !

C’est l’heure des beaux mecs et des chevaux blancs, des puceaux en aube blanche. Ton cœur s’est arrêté de battre sans que tu ne saches vraiment pourquoi. Nympho sur les bords outrageants, Zelda est morte. Tu l’as déjà chantée, et bien dansez maintenant !

***

Extrait de "Au sortir de la nuit", Etranges anges anglais, mgv2>publishing, 2013

C4 -- extrait des Chants du malaise, 1994

Dans la mansarde ténébreuse
l’heureuse Zelda Rissenstein
se caresse le ventre
et les seins

les soldats bruns l’emportent
sur leurs ailes d’acier
dans un wagon de tôle froissée
et sur les rails de l’enfer
le wagon roule, roule encore
son corps
mutilé et atrocité
des exhalaisons
passagères

le rythme d’équinoxe
solstice de la perte
une fournaise et puis des cendres
Zelda Rissenstein et Cassandre.


*****

Zelda

In a dark attic
a girl known as Zelda
caresses her body
caresses her breast.

The Brown Soldiers
grab her
with their sharp claws
and take her away
on their wings of iron.

A wagon
of crisped steel boards
and on the railroads
to hell
she yells.

Equinoctial rhythm
solstice of loss
a furnace then ashes
Zelda Rissenstein vanishes.

*****

Excerpt from Les chants du malaise publié dans  RAL,M 73-74 juillet 2011.
English transversion 2005 by Walter Ruhlmann, first published in poeticdiveristy, December 2007

Out of the Night #6 -- first published in Magnapoets, 2007

I smelled eastern fragrances hidden in his coat. He had stolen them from a Cretan wine merchant by a full-moon night. The angels do it their own way. So do the titans. Farewell woollen boy, I am going back to life. You knew it was vain to try willing. Madness shall be mine, once oblivion has come.

*****

Au sortir de la nuit #6

excerpt from Etranges anges anglais [Strange English Angels] mgv2>publishing, 2014

J’ai senti les parfums orientaux cachés dans son manteau, il les avait volés à un marchand de vin de Crète, un soir de pleine lune. Les anges n’en font qu’à leur tête, les titans aussi.

Adieu garçon de laine, je pars rejoindre la vie. Tu savais qu’elle était vaine cette tentative d’envie. La folie sera reine, une fois passé l’oubli.

Günter -- first published in Magnapoets, 2008

He danced around a bonfire
with his hands waving to the sky.
Half naked, his shorts showing through.
Flames were licking his body, his feet moved
rapidly, in an urgent motion
defying all gravity.

When I met him
he was the counterpoint of all those
waiting in line, behind
he could see faeries in the back of my garden
and fireflies were his most intimate fellows.

Now
years later
Time achieving its duty,
compelling him to spread milky lotions
on his face and ex muscled limbs
dropping
down
on him,
to moisture his skin and hair
both greying.

Faeries have vanished,
fireflies switched off.

Sexwebvideos -- paru dans Microbe 51, janvier-février 2009

Tu aimes les voir jouir
sur ton écran
sous une lumière blafarde
dans ton bureau monacal
avec le sexe dans la main.

Il te fait mal des fois
il te fait souffrir
et tu souffres encore plus
de ne pouvoir être avec eux.

Réveil -- paru dans Mots à maux, janvier 2006

Le soleil tremblait de ses rayons chauds
frileux, il restait là, sans rien faire
il regardait le monde en flammes
la terre brûler
l'enfer devant ses yeux et des fleurs aussi impures que les cieux
lorsqu'ils éjaculent les psaumes du divin
vengeur.

C'est comme un retour en arrière:
un frère à ses côtés
semble patienter
avant que le cri ne les allonge.
Marie, tu souffres encore de ces infamies,
Joe te secoue si longtemps, si souvent,
fleur des champs
des chants t'envoûtent
retourne en Terre Consacrée,
retourne dans la carverne bleue,
les enfants te montreront le chemin.

Dans la caverne bleue
je suis allongé sur un lit de paille,
je regarde la voûte,
les dessins figés,
les traces de mes ancêtres déprimés.

La maison brûle.
Le cerveau explose.
Je ne veux plus revenir ici.

*****

Version originale du poème "Awakening"

Awakening -- first published in Ancient Heart, January 2011

The sun trembled of its hot rays
sensitive to the cold, he remained there, doing nothing
he looked at the world in flames
the earth burning
the hell in front of his eyes and the flowers' as impure as the skies
when they ejaculate the psalms of the divine
avenger.

It is like a flashback:
a brother at his sides
seem to wait patiently
before the scream lay them down.
Marie, you still suffer from these infamies,
Joe shakes you such a long time, so often,
flowers of the fields
the songs put the spell on you
go back to  Consecrated Land,
go back into the blue cave,
the children will show you the way.

In the blue cave
I am lying down on a bed of straw,
I am looking at the vault,
the solidified drawings,
the traces of my depressed ancestors.

The house burns.
The brain explodes.
I don't want to stay here anymore

In Another Waiting Room

In the sheltering place I hate to dwell in,
lost on the banks of the Loire river,
the flows are unsafe,
the waters troubled,
icy, wintry air, sun rays above all.

I rang at Hardy's door.
Not the British counterpart of Laurel of course – the time
shifted from this point.
I kept no one else's appointment but mine
for I needed more pills to cure the nightmarish gaps
night knights and knives had carved in this damaged brain of mine – 
I had to avoid suicide.

I laurel this room for its safeness
and quietness,
the light,
the whiteness,
the space – 
frames and spaces follow me everywhere,
even in hell
or on the benches where I sat listening,
dreaming, exercising, contemplating
Bishop's art of drawing
maps and landscapes.

That morning I sat on another bench,
in another waiting room,
waiting for Hardy to come in
and ring my bell, remind me of the hell,
cure me from mental hay
fever and send away all disarray.
I sat opposite this painting
by Russian-French artist Sonia Delaunay – Long Journeys.

Colours and shapes, round and vivid, bright, dazzling,
all these effects drove me back to this place
loophole dreamt – hell hole lived – I even recognized
on the right-hand side
a woman wearing saluvas... red-striped like Sandia's.

Four panels divide the canvas where variegated ghosts
shake hands, dance, pray or swim,
eat papaya, sweets and pizza in the shades of an umbrella.

Through the window I watched magpies fly 
from tree to tree, in search of food, probably.
The magpies back there feast on chelonian offsprings
as they sprout from Saziley.

I watched this leafless tree reminding me of the nervous human system.
Mine is a battle field, a war HQ, a shadow cabinet, a closet where dreams and nightmares copulate.
I watched the roof tops and the tree set on this March morning blue sky,
its clear, light blue lagoon shades invited me once more to dive
in the depths of navy blue memories
darkening my thoughts,
opening my mouth,
starting my youth,
peeling me out.

The heating system started,
I was still staring at the sky 
and in a start watched the closet hiding the beast.
The flame trembling – I could hear it – would lick the erected hair on my arm:
this limb never produces any harm, resting softly and bare on the arm of the chair,
cherishing the feel of the plastic surface.

Hardy came in, my arm lifted me up, and stretched out towards the doctor's hand.
I sat on the opposite chair. He waited for my words to come out.
He expected me to hand him my SS card.
I could still see Sonia Delaunay's art.
Master of painters in my heart.
Maore let me breathe now.
Let me forget you.
Let me live.
Let loose.
Leave
me a
lone.

*****

Title inspired by Elizabeth Bishop's poem “In the Waiting Room”, Geography III. Poem inspired by Sonia Delaunay's painting Voyages lointains/ Long Journeys.  from Carmine Carnival, Lazarus Media, 2013 first published in Touch Poetry Journal, 2012

Kingdom of a Doomed King -- first published in Magnapoets, July 2007

Things are not the same
I feel
A waste of time running
along
and the wind of Austria
blowing on my face again.

Lying down on the pavement
where my feet strode too many times
and all the wicked boulevards
where I found the sweetest solace.
Feeding on a few fruit and seeds
like a bird - a fragile prey
to the vultures
circling around up there
and God would let them do
because He could do without me.

I did a few mistakes
but how can one let a poor soul
rotting on the sidewalk
of this greying city.

Eigteen fifty-four.
Have I come out of age?
The heart lies in the sewage
and I used to be one of them
- bright and beautiful,
rich and popular -
now the time has come for me to play
dead.

Many Slit-Opened Heads Later - to Julien. B. -- first published in Magnapoets, July 2007

I want to write something for you
something special
but it seems that won't do.

You were something far beyond us.
Some unreachable star.
Already.
Ten years back - seventeen - 
Late nineties.

All of us craved for you.
He did more than I,
he was probably right.
But he died
not from it -
from something closer to what he had always been
 - ludicrous - 
but not quite
the same.

I want to write something
because I surfed past you a lot lately
and saw how grown-up you are
half smiling 
bare naked
in front of cameras
reading your poems
& prose
to audience
everywhere
you go.

I wanted to write something special
but it seems I didn't. Do
you care if I hate you
now?

He'd written something for you.
Something special.
Something good.
Let's not the tea go cold - 
it was called.

He is cold now
and so are you
lost in the Swiss snow.

Bath first published in Aesthetica Magazine, July 2008

She wanted to lie down next to me.
She did.
I said she ought to know there were no chances;
she took hers.

I remember this silent night
in my flat
up there
up the Plantation Shop
Bath
Nineteen
Ninety-six

Fanny
was her name
she once met the Native
and shared his wrath
against the wall
of uncertainties
that went up
between us.

Andy and Paul
were cutting plants,
tidying the shop,
clearing things,
counting money.
When she went downstairs
she helped herself with a cup of coffee
the smell of it filled up the kitchen.

I let her go
I had to
she had to go
and there were no
other ways.
The Native would come back shortly after.
He had been out all night.
Staring at the sky,
talking to the moon,
to the stars,
his fingers touching the darkest patch of the ethereal net
up there.

He entered the room
I was still lying on my bed.
He lied next to me.
The wine vapours still lingered in his hair,
on his clothes, on his pale skin.
I touched his back.
He said I ought to know there were no chances;
I got up
and went to work.