May my last breath be eaten by a fish, but may it be a fish in the bowels of the sea; for I am many things and in the oceans there is plenty of room. May it be a fish of the sea because the breath has fresh wounds and the salt contained in the water always helps.
You are the water swallow, collector of ceramics, compass made of red earth.
I am going to shatter the greatest of the theories, the one that speaks of your conception, a grain of sand spinning in its mother-of-pearl orbit. The theory that destines your body to hang from lobes or necks that are not poetry.
Tie with discreet cords the maritime clouds and in your street pilgrimage at the beginning of your dance shake your hair that brings music to make it rain.
Photography by Tatjana Suski? Ninkovi?
I write to accompany; my texts enter what is broken, the everyday, and the hidden.