i remember her
all in white
all dressed
but not going anywhere
she has a name
she gives herself
a little sip
of descartes
and jean paul-Sartre
and the rest
from whom
there is neither
entrance nor
exit
trapped. caught.
claustrophobic.
caustic. sour cream.
cranky
she wants
an immersion in murky
rivers
she cannot thing
of any place beyond
her or us
her hand reaches
for her hand
alone.
my atheist lover..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem