Hundredfold

I am going to tell you a secret,

I don’t often sleep well,

I dream you have come out of prison

and carry your mattress under your arm

as if it were the Sunday paper or a comic

for your favourite daughter.

You don’t look thinner and your fingers are

covered in manure as the farmer

I married,

You're walking slowly, smiling with gratitude,

I am not holding your hand,

 I am in a street corner  

waiting for you to pass by and

stop aware that I am here.

Here, against my will,

 pulling my short skirt,

pulling my sleeves to cover my cold hands.

I fear.

I followed you knowingly

that you are deeply engaged

in thought.

You stopped and the woman smoking outside the bar

said to you:

 “You look very cosy” pointing at your

fur hat.

You invited her to touch your chest

and your whole body shivered with love.

She knew you are a passer-by so remarkably

like others.

She embraced you so tightly

As if she were holding a hundred men or more

You stayed long.

I am still behind you,

observing how your legs give way.

 She holds you without letting you fall,

but you have closed your eyes.

She murmured something

 touching  your lips,

something I couldn’t hear   

Did she tell you that the streets

are never empty or

 that I was right behind you?

You turned around and saw me

perfectly still and holding my breath.

I am your daughter.