Those damn Sundays
Raise your head.
Lift your chin.
There are questions to be asked.
We count our merchandise like peddlars:
Sisters, mothers, husbands.
Whom did we sleep with,
Whom did we think we were sleeping with.
On whom did we cast a stone.
Then a touch of senility
The blessed art of forgetting.
On Mondays nothing actually happened
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.