This woman is not a woman.
she is a sort of bendable agony,
a maleable victim of the words.

she smiles more than she can bear
and pleases the walking clouds.
she is gentle with the rattle snakes
no matter how close they are.
she believes invisibility and camouflage
are synonyms.

she hasn't changed much
since she became a symptom.
ubiquity is her strength.
she is where silence is law.

it's a pity you can't hear
her heart beating beneath her ragged dreams.
i bet you thought she was dead.
she isn't yet.
i was told you misconfused her
for a piece of furniture.
it is not your fault though.
you can blame those who came
before her if you feel more comfortable.

she may survive eternity
because she has endured the burden
of being a whisper,
a distant wound.

as she marches against everything,
i wonder who can empower her.,
who can understand when
she says she wants to be free,
not brave.

karla bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2020

After her,
i grant myself the permission
to wait for nothing.
that doesn't mean
she was the best option
for our collective unconscious.
we inherit retro dreams,
stupidities and
the incomprehensible macho stance:
the burden of the burden.

Sylvia Ji

 

 

 

 

 

She looks at him,
despising the hours,
sniffing her wrist
as if she could still feel
that absolute perfume
hanging on her immaculate
married skin.

He- the distant miracle
opening and opening
her warmth, her frosted mind:
get up, cook, sweep, complain,
sleepsleepsleepsleepsleep.

She - a lovely plastic doll.
Use her with her ring.
Use her without her ring.
She might not survive Christmas
or another dusty family party.

(His smell was obscenely delightful.
She needs more. She needs another
onomatopoeic afternoon.
His hands beneath her, breaking halos,
encircling her half-veiled constellations.
she was exercising her faith in herself again)

He observed her and could swear
she was praying: her pupils were dilated.
It was a divine ecstasy - he thought.
He wanted to tambourine her
with glory and fervor.

He wanted her last millimeters,
centimeters of endless skin
after such a long time.
But she stopped his hand midair:
nothing could be sparser than
what he could do to exalt her
after the pre and post-discovery of
her newly wet self.

Karla Bardanza

 

 

 

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012

Now that the Sun is in Leo
and winter undresses the trees,
coldness looks through the keyholes,
spying those who shiver and chatter
during the night as the south wind
blows, carrying leaves which lay
on the desolate streets of life.

There is a woman by a blurry window.
her soul searches for answers, her heart
grows each day, waiting for someone
who will never give the answers she
needs to hear.

A tall man is smoking his life away
on a porch, thinking about all the mistakes
staining his hands, cursing the bloody moon
as his eyes itch.

They are painting a canvas which
cannot be hung on the wall.
They were defeated but they still don't know
if the battle was lost.

A little girl is playing in her bedroom.
She closes her eyes and hope embraces
her bruised body. She is a princess
without a crown, a fairy without
one of the wings,
She is something lost and found.

Every night she prays for better days.
She doesn't know but a miracle is in
store for her.

Suddenly a woman opens the little girl's door
(she was by the window before)
She caresses her girl's bald head,
and lulls her to sleep as the Gods in heavens,
with their ever open eyes, bless again that
love so perfect and deep.


Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2011