Reasons

I didn’t take her
to Africa, one more time
because,
well, because of
very good reasons,
like we all have
very good reasons
for doing
what is urgent
and postponing
what is
important.

No, I didn’t take her
to Africa, one more time
no matter how our hearts
pulled us,
to be Mother and Daughter
again,
with the market women
and their daughters,
whose faces beamed joy,
just seeing us being
Mother and Daughter
like that.

Each time
I step out of
the airplane
and get soaked in
that humid air
my feet walk slowly,
pensive,
remembering
that I had
too many
very good reasons.

Jetlag

The tightness
of trying
and trying to try
and still lying
awake
in a damp bed
of impersonal luxury.
Trying on thoughts
like too tight dresses,
impossible
to get out of,
and forced
to breathe shallowly
for fear
of bursting seams.
5:58 a.m. Colombo.
Nearly done wasting
the precious
night hours.

It doesn’t snow for me

Years ago
I wished
that it may snow
harder,
so I could spend
one more night
with my lover,
warming my huge belly
between us
before flying home
for Christmas
to a grieving house.
But even as
the planes were grounded
and we drove home
slowly, smiling,
savoring this undeserved
gift,
I knew,
It didn’t snow for me.
It just snowed.

Existential Office Move

Der Starke Maxedited

From the fourth floor
to the third,
another people box
the same dimensions
table, chair, book shelf, computer
and the picture of a man
riding a fish,
providing a glimpse
of soul.

I find an uncontrolled growth
of paper stacks
on my old shelves,
forests of old notes
evaluations of long forgotten
events, faceless
business cards and,
like bread crumbs,
a trail of stick figures
on the margins.

Traces of old striving
gathering dust.
I need a supersize
trash can,
so I can grow
a new forest
on the third floor.

My Jellyfish Heart

Really here
when I’m here,
really there
when I’m there.
Where am I
at night
when I hear
your voice
on the phone?
Where are you?

The sun shines
through my jellyfish heart
exposed on the beach.
Will it dry out
and leave nothing
but a milky stain
on the sand?

While I wonder
the next wave
sweeps me back
into the ocean,
throwing me around,
never ripped apart,
never even twisted.

Is there stillness
inside the translucence?
A knowing that
I will remain,
that same changeable,
movable, unshakable
being, no matter where
I am thrown,
until, what remains
is a white imprint,
just a thought of me
on a far off beach?

 

Feel it

Scan_20170225 (7)

You heart
wants to quietly
recede to
the tepid shallow waters,
where no big waves,
no bright sunshine
will ever hit it,
curl up to elevator music
and eat something
that has no name.

Before you go there
stop.
Just for a second
or two,
one breath and
the blink of an eye
and feel the scary thing
that is bubbling up
from your stomach.

When it touches
your heart
does it burn?
Does it make
your mouth
or your hands
want to urgently do
something?

Another breath,
another step
into the wild
ocean of
your hot blood.
Don’t hide.
Don’t do.
Just feel.
Taste the sweet
sharp and
bitter
juices
of
your soul.

 

 

Storm days

As I step out of my house
the storm tosses sea gulls
accross the bright blue skye.
A near full moon
is fading, as it sets
and the air feels
like years ago,
when I used to take
my bike on a train
to the baltic sea
and fight the wind
high up on a cliff path
asking nobody’s permission
to feel alife
in the bright and beautiful
struggle.

A sacred Tango

Seven months pregnant
carrying my daughter
proudly in a tight black dress – well,
everything is tight
at seven months.
Most guys too afraid
they’d drop me
on the dance floor
and I’d have my baby
right there and then.

But he had danced
his own wife
through her pregnancies,
years ago and knew:
a pregnant woman
is a thing of strength
and beauty.
The three of us danced
so gentle and light,
enfolded in a cocoon of music.

We are still strangers.
But years later,
when we see each other
we smile and feel
the echo
of that dance
in the air.