There comes a time when you make up your lovers
give them names like you used call your dolls
line them up in your bedroom and tell them what to say
to your legs, to your neck or how you used to blur his waters.
Your heart has been restless, it now makes noises like
a thousand workers on a scaffolding of your body: I accept
my body is going to Heaven but I rather have my soul wondering in
the streets of Craiova, with smoke, the smell of fresh donuts,
but in no hurry. With only 5000 you could be dressed up in a paper dress
with cardboard shoes like a Cinderrela and sent back to Romania
where you can say words in your native tongue
where you can wisper something in his ear
where your mum keeps in a cupboard a tiny bit of hair
a silver spoon and some plates with seven dwarfs
every day you add another tin to the plane made of tomatoes tins
every day.