THE MAN WHO TOLD ME I AM BEAUTIFUL
No more waves of wind growing against flames
on the beach tonight –
one drop of ashes after another
determined to cover the cold sand of their wisdom,
a package full of blue jeans running along the shore.
They told me to wait and to keep an eye over the open fire
while the Southern gentle breeze descended into the bubbling cauldron
The word was to be patient,
but he rephrased it in an instant
with causative verbs of perception
by the water, by the trunks, near the forest.
They, they said to hold back
to watch and to fear him.
Only him, the man who told me I am beautiful
two hundred and forty eight times
in a possible argumentative mistake
of an everyday message.
And then they told me to die and to live again;
to drink and to keep myself thirsty;
to smile and to cry before your eyes always.
And from that moment,
there is nothing
I can do
Mihaela Cristescu is a poet living in Parramatta to write about relationships capable of traveling online between continents. Image: Mihaela Cristescu.
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