To the Hole of Crickets

They could dance as shadows, only shadows or the same as gauzy bodies into a corridor, but the dark lights of the aurora are defacing a waterfall of dreams, as she tries to escape from her body, while he touches her nudity. We scream yellow walls, releasing fire from our mouths unable to stop them, waiting for our turn. They are more than ten – soldiers – coming like ghosts from the gaff bellow the door, where animals faces’ usually lurk, asking for freedom, but where now the snouts are giants, disintegrating souls. We kneel, breathing then the smoke, to thank God that she left behind her red shoes. (The dried blood already replaced the land.)

– it would only be an instrument to play a melody that deforms
Paulina says about the shoes

– inside is always better that she doesn’t have anything to remind her that she is already a woman, a mother, a bird given, or

– sustain the sentence

I beg Lily. Although the train arrived one week ago we are still tired. Our Illusions became a piece of paper torn into icicles, shining molten, on the skin. We don’t why they made us know the trains were the infinite, moving trees in our eyes. Now we can only imagine that our hair is haulms on the floor which – one day – we will gore into our body, waiting for the seminal liquor that comes out from us as flowers.

***

Fátima Almeida
Journalist
Age 26
Macao, China

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