The night Viorica was closest to death he shut her window.
She was on the wrong side.
Or was drowned near the kitchen sink.
Her screams suffocated in the towels unclean.
The son was thrown out of the window or he saved himself by jumping.
She tried to stick out of the loophole, freeing the bathwater air.
Her hummed melody, a discomfort, a dislocation, dissatisfaction.
Her legs hanging over the sill.
Scrubbing, wetting the surfaces, everclean, polluted.
Viorica’s face distorted by motherhood.
A wife chewing her own lips to keep his flesh at bay.
Eyes shut tightly, putting all her effort in not to cry.
Surrounded by demons everlasting, she shrugs inside of herself.
And wondered when she became so helpless.
Gone through the toughest pains, she still got dressed in the morning.
Days without conversations, consolations, so alone.
They were in their fantasy world.
She is looking out of windows.
He is marching through women’s routines, yet coming home to her.
Her head in the books, her sanity on a hook.
He has no idea who they are.
Viorica revisits that night she almost died, changing perspectives.
The feeling alike to the ring on her finger.
His presence in her bed.
“The Wild Roses” by Conrad Kiesel (1846-1921)