Aksinia Mihaylova


Half an hour I’ve been standing in the shower
and can’t wash off this haunting dream
pursuing me for years,
in which you abandon me
at the farmer’s market
in a southern city.
The tides of blood discard
sand and dead jellyfish in my eyes
and I can’t see how you walk away
carrying someone else’s joy
leaning on your shoulder.

April opens its balconies,
yet the cat in me does not wake up
for the fifth straight month:
hot tin roofs,
sunny tiled roofs
are scenes from another season.

I dig a furrow under the fig,
squeeze in my palm
valerian seeds
and I talk to them in a strange dialect,
but the rain doesn’t come
and you won’t understand anyway
how you need to love me.

Over my head a cloud hangs
like a promise.