I have excess walls that lose the experience of home and a lack of heart ability.
So, said the arrogant lady in white, your heart is working 60 percent. I took my bag: my heart works 100 percent
for my children, I muttered as I left.
Ever since my son got married, another void has settled in me.
I now live with three, in giant aquariums that from time to time
I call soooobe.
I nailed pictures of them to the walls,
so similar to Bosnia that I can calmly embrace anyone I see.
But that calm is just an illusion. When I lick it it has a taste of separation.
Later, the forty percent grave of my heart shines with the light of ordinary life
so thousands of human fish rage (h)
packs things in bags, laundries in the garden, cries and a raised T-shirt with glossy glasses
cracked from myself, at night I look hard at the sky and pray.
Once so, I polished all the spoons, practiced all the smiles for others, through the window
formed a plain for children's feet, I you, don't be lazy in that smaller room
I insert an ironing board, to make at least some sense
The daughter-in-law and the son sleep in the bigger one when they come
When they lock the door, they leave the possibility of reading behind
thoughts of distance and the smell of connection
She is not heard in tears
mothers
