I put a crown on her head and she drowned.
My fingers, twisting and turning, without nails,
Hammering her insides. I wanted her on my skin.
Her scent on my flesh, my tongue, then gone, evaporated
Alongside the shame, the transferal, our names, erased.
I tried to reach her without coming close to her.
She wanted to hold my hand but I opened my mouth
Instead. Taking her out like trash. Slithering over her
Without listening to her voice, to what her body is saying
To me in such an urgency. She speaks of her pain and I want
To learn how to swim in it. I lose her gaze.
I gave her a million names, nothing sounded right.
And she’d pick at her own skin, tear it, deracinate it,
She wanted to see blood and destruction, open-heart surgery,
The torn portrait, the facial demise, shredding the facades
That made her sick. It’d never be enough, never end, the devil’s
Handiwork, her face was still there but she couldn’t see it anymore.
“Dame in Blau” by Leo Putz (1869-1940)