Ironic Tenderness


We gather wounds but soon they scar.
We tend to each and one of them with affectionate precision.
So they can sink in oblivion like sugar in cappuccino froth

Until …
on days when weather changes briskly
(As it would, right? in a city like ours)
A fluorescent thud alights under each memory of a scar
Filling the city people with iridescent melancholy
that gathers in the middle of our chest
It pulsates, 1, 2, 3 …and maybe 4
Into the rose buds of our hearts
Fringed by etiolated petals.


Wombs that Carried Me

15252650_1342980552419809_5979692732006251785_oMy 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

The other

too young to bare  a name.

My grandma never wrote a word

but she rhymed for the dead

at funerals

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

though slowly

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

one ok-ish

(I always corrected her and then felt bad about it)

one broken

the language of obvious immigrants

who got humiliated  by men and women

entitled and more “civilized”

and who was loved

by many

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

The Departure of the Laughing Girl


London is the place I came to holding no more than a cabin bag.

It’s not that I have more than that now,

Because I always thought that everything I own I hold within,

But for that reason I had to accommodate more smiles inside

And as the smiles sneaked in, the tears came out.

I put on a little weight you know, with all this stuff,

The care, the food, the languages, the lot

I consumed a little too much, I guess…

But sometimes I go and work hard all those muscles of longing…

For the music of the language I spoke as a child,

For the unconditional sisterly love,

Expressed with more than a Whatsapp call.

London is the place where tears are more flavoursome

Adding their own unique twist to this Babylonian cocktail.

The place where all the places are missed at once,

Distance beautifying faces, oceans, hills or trees.

London is not just a tag name

On a box of souvenirs.

It’s all of you who smiled and cried with me,

The ones who recognized me by my laugh

And by my funny walk,

or travelled in my dreams or in my clumsy lyrics.

Today’s the day of the departure

Of the memorable laughing girl.

Who’s got your heart beat imprinted

In a song hummed on her way to the airport

Holding no more than a precisely measured cabin bag




Mountain that dreams of being me: water and air

I erode it’s margins

I etch wrinkles in on its forehead…

I gain meaning despite my volatility.

My hands are evaporating on its chest…

I am haze.

We grow forests together.


This voluptuousness is painful with a new fear:

Loneliness is an illness I can only cure myself of alone.