Two.
She tells me, which is the age of her first-born daughter.
We share same beds, same bed sheets, same squeaking birds spiked
When my or her or her baby’s right side become too much; and, we,
Me, and her, and her, give in to same turns which fall like night falls like
Birds fall from the mattress to the ground; which is nothing to share,
A few hundred dead birds under the bed smelling of chestnuts; for every
Turn. I sleep on my back. But then night comes and night comes again,
And is during day time we know each other well.
How can anyone sleep here? Which is not my autumn and
I love her immediately for the way she puts up her hair; or the way
Her baby has her tumor, or the way a friend of mine smuggles
For us chocolate and coke, and she says no, no, thank you and I know she counts
The dead birds under her bed and under mine too and sometimes I think she counts
With me the days I have left and says no, no, thank you, it is no time to know
each other well, and no, no, thank you because we sleep talking right to the billionth bird
Piling up, and her baby is asleep, too, and then it’s not me
it’s always her offering chocolate,
and it is always me
saying nothing,
and night comes,
and comes again
___
Mariya Nikolava works in the area of transnational literature, theater and film which (for now) gives her the promise that she will mature to button up some of her thoughts, both tender and thunder, in a book. Chagall has a painting called La Mariee but that's not how she spells her name (and she was never a bride either). But writing, photography and rescuing stray animals from Bulgaria do give her a sensation of who she is, She writes/films dirty characters because she doesn't believe that anything other would deserve the cleansing of pen, paper, and film...and perhaps the claustrophobic Bremen, where she is now, does its part (there are two seasons here: rainy and unbearably rainy).
She tells me, which is the age of her first-born daughter.
We share same beds, same bed sheets, same squeaking birds spiked
When my or her or her baby’s right side become too much; and, we,
Me, and her, and her, give in to same turns which fall like night falls like
Birds fall from the mattress to the ground; which is nothing to share,
A few hundred dead birds under the bed smelling of chestnuts; for every
Turn. I sleep on my back. But then night comes and night comes again,
And is during day time we know each other well.
How can anyone sleep here? Which is not my autumn and
I love her immediately for the way she puts up her hair; or the way
Her baby has her tumor, or the way a friend of mine smuggles
For us chocolate and coke, and she says no, no, thank you and I know she counts
The dead birds under her bed and under mine too and sometimes I think she counts
With me the days I have left and says no, no, thank you, it is no time to know
each other well, and no, no, thank you because we sleep talking right to the billionth bird
Piling up, and her baby is asleep, too, and then it’s not me
it’s always her offering chocolate,
and it is always me
saying nothing,
and night comes,
and comes again
___
Mariya Nikolava works in the area of transnational literature, theater and film which (for now) gives her the promise that she will mature to button up some of her thoughts, both tender and thunder, in a book. Chagall has a painting called La Mariee but that's not how she spells her name (and she was never a bride either). But writing, photography and rescuing stray animals from Bulgaria do give her a sensation of who she is, She writes/films dirty characters because she doesn't believe that anything other would deserve the cleansing of pen, paper, and film...and perhaps the claustrophobic Bremen, where she is now, does its part (there are two seasons here: rainy and unbearably rainy).
