Earth as an apple

I little tiny

Ants as soon as I notice

how they enter their houses,

how they bend under the berry,

as soon as I follow the ladybug far and see

lands again on a flower that bends,

dancing

bows then draws something buzzing

multiplies as if the meadow

and sways it

I smell smoke but I also smell myself

we take potatoes out of the embers and make up

The potato skins swell with joy from the fire,

I can feel the words crumbling inside them

and don’t want to give away the experience,

they thicken the smell of ash and are silent,

their silence is visible

loving,

      somehow slowly

                somehow frightening

I have put on mother’s dress of green velvet

over my brother’s trousers

And I tell you, I have a gold dress too,

and I’m telling stories with it…

if we were telling on the fire, and the fire

tells on the potatoes,

and they tell to the wind,

or the order is another the wind tells

to the potatoes, which like dead men,

tell dumbly, and then the fire does not,

the fire only burns

I was actually afraid, the potatoes if they tell that they are stolen

we were creating a gang biography, we were skipping in the vineyards

for milk corn, pears, okra,… we look around in the

mirrors of sunflower cakes

we’ll walk in the ravine

to the robbers

But she won’t come,

because…

She against the chief

(she has long eyelashes because her grandmother is a beautician and

gives her eyelash ointment to put on them, which

her aunt cures bald men)

when I stood by the big walnut tree

between her and the chief

and saved her

when the wind blew from the ravine

and we all started for the robber’s hangout

and came back with a handful of snuff for our wounds

(she was healing donkey wounds too, she said)

I knew that my conversation

with the far things

remains borne

by the wind

with the smell of embers