Skip to content
Give readers a window on the world. Click to donate.
from the October 2004 issue

Red and White

I can't reread my old poems

the being that wrote them distanced herself from me,

with my very own hand I chased her away.

I couldn't stand to see her wallowing

in this reality without churches

without God

I replaced myself with another,

but at vespers time

I look for a green expanse concealed inside my mind

or some tree bark

and I make the pagan sign of the cross.

At times reality catches me in the middle of the act

and stuffs down my throat its five-cornered red stars.

I barely manage to get home,

I vomit them one by one

I flush them down with all I got.

And everything, everything (an old saying around here has


purges out into the big black sea.
Read more from the October 2004 issue
Like what you read? Help WWB bring you the best new writing from around the world.