In Paris I was wandering and roaming around Xeme arr. and I discovered by chance the place where Cortazar dwelled in Paris, so I wrote this poem.
CORTAZAR’S HOUSE
Tongues of black wild orchids are thrusting from the subway
When I go out I behold nothing in my hand but I know where I go
Black people with waived hair stop me on their way
The tenth arrondissement is screaming like an express boiling pot cooking meat
The breath is becoming ticker as I walk to you, me, alone, while I step down
the fall of someone’s else bravery, cigarettes tucked in the paving stone, mute souls
before the great morning when you wake up, when you wake me up with your hand in my hair
on the wooden floor you are searching for your socks, knees, grass, rainbows
I am stepping down fragile branches, and I fill glasses until I start scrolling down within
The high heels are grumbling and sticking to the sound of the bandoneon
And all those tongues, serpents, dragons, rhinoceros are blazing on my head while I am coming into you
And frightened I stick tight in my hand the number of your door
Of your hidden household.
natashasardzoska 