My mother missed her own funeral.
Why or how she did it is a mystery.
Or a fantasy. I barely remember.
The blow of absence that shut the priest's
Voice like a child's very first nightmare.
The lump of air in my throat I kneaded
Until it became smoke, became breath.
Language, nestled up against silence.
A lunatic sashaying past, grinning,
Doesn't anyone know where she is?
What can I say? We all missed it. And left.
Well, no wonder
, someone muttered
On my way past the holy water,
She's a suicide, you know . . . and a whore.
, I thought.
Not even God can create a net without holes.
Daniele Pantano 07.07.2009 Druckansicht Seite empfehlen