by Bénédicte Kusendila
The sheets hung out to sweet perfection,
the bed covered by a quilt of hearts.
It is okay to be girly again,
to foreshow what I want.
The drunken dance of welcoming tourists;
they’re already my friends. The psalm of
the classy suit shouting, “I don’t know! I don’t know!”
in the street, in his mobile phone. Continue reading
