He-Art Poem by Miroslava Odalovic

the healthy ones saw us
as two incurable diseases
that kissed through the bars of a cage
they did lots of self-painting
in a sudden recoil from the wires
we had become addicted to

the mornings knew I loved them only
when they had a colour of his eyes
and the streets outside meant something
only if they carried his voice
in echoes that pierced the skin
like tender warm little thunders
emerging from behind the cells

the beds remember the love we never made
the chairs remember hours of screen spelled talks
the glasses remember the drought of the drink

the rains came to remind us
the waters can have no museum