• marluce lima

Before She Dies

Updated: Oct 12, 2019

|poem published in "FLARE 12" organized by The Sunflower Sessions, July/2019 - Dublin

Sitting on the couch

Still wearing a uniform

Same spot as usual

I see the time on the microwave

It’s telenovela time

Silence on the corridor

Until the elevator ding

Passes under the door

She’s at the eighth floor level

After two hours of flight

The peculiar scent comes first

Reaching me and making me taste

The lotion from her bulky body

Making her funny face

She knows my own city better than I do

Where to walk and how to be a guide

She sees streets closer

Better than the homeless birds

Even without her self-confidence glasses

With her plastic bags

Scrabbling sounds like the birds

Has she brought them too?

Rushing in her tired sandals

And swollen legs

To get to my side

Her teeth twittering words

Her fat fingers taking my hand

She points to the ceiling

Telling me to turn down the TV sounds

Asking me if I’m deaf

And wanting to change my telenovela for hers

Her idol on the screen laughs

She tells me in between breaks about the sales goods

That she took there from my city

Sticking on her mark-up

Haven’t you had a bath yet?

She brings my fingers up to

Her wavy black-dyed hair

The scratch of her sharp nails

On my hand annoying me

Forcing me to tend and cafuné her head

With me moaning and her wanting to show me

The right way to do it

Before she’s dead

The voice of a healthy old lady

Instructs me how to dunk her biscuit

In a warm-milk cup

For when she loses her teeth

Before she dies

Sitting on another couch

There’s no lift here

Only stairs

No biscuit warm and damp

She is dead


  • Branca Ícone do Flickr
  • Ícone do Facebook Branco
  • Ícone do Twitter Branco
  • Ícone do Instagram Branco
  • Ícone do Youtube Branco

made with love & poetry