Childhood lived in the toilets Poem by Marie de Quatrebarbes

Childhood lived in the toilets of a house smaller than most houses

on the tapestry of forms were reciting extracts from the dictionary I took for images

if I think of the tears that followed the breaking and uproar, how can you tell when it's your turn to cry?

certainly one last breath signaled that she had made up her mind, while the room had no other exit

seeing her, I said to myself: her eye is golden and her mouth is a secret

we dressed her in a gown that suited her well

we did her hair, which I had cut

then the child left his cage and excused himself for forgetting something

I walk no doubt in what he forgot

I hear her voice when I look at her, by chance, on the side she's on

sometimes I laugh without knowing it