My grandma never wore a bra
she wore her bare feet on the ground
I remember the heat in the dust
and that I couldn’t bare it
with my city sensitive skin.
But she did.
She carried 7 siblings in her womb
5 girls, 2 brothers.
the brothers died
Ignat -starting his toddler smiling charm
too young to bare a name.
My grandma never wrote a word
but she rhymed for the dead
like a poetess.
My mother never wanted me
or never knew she did
before she had me.
Tough times, you know
communism and all that Hell
she laughed like my gran
who was paralyzed by the time I was 10
It’s funny how my laughter changes into hers
As I grow older
Like an echo of herself.
I never quite decided
whether it was a symbol of granma’s Death
or Life itself
I see her often,
looking down on me from Heaven
She said there’s place there for alcoholics too
as long as they were saintly.
She also told me that IT had no gender
or a womb for that reason
Or at least that’s what I wanted to imagine.
because of pure luck
learned how to read and write
I read all right
like when I’m eating good food…
I write questionably
and very ocasionaly
My mum is reading more and more
when she’s got time around her caring jobs
she speaks two languages
(I always corrected her and then felt bad about it)
the language of obvious immigrants
who got humiliated by men and women
entitled and more “civilized”
and who was loved
despite of her broad accent
or simply just because of that.
Who knows how many wombs have carried me?
As I look further back
I start seeing myself
More and more
And start birthing myself
anew and anew and anew
until I shed the skins of mine and their pain