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WHAT THERE IS AT MY DISPOSAL
The weed in the pot is gesticulating
like the first and only guest
at a birthday party. The other seeds
never appeared.
Silently they refused to take part
in the fair of transformations -
thesis, antithesis, synthesis -
even their thesis remained hidden.
Yesterday I poked the soil around;
they were all gone.
I found only two round bodies
clenching their teeth in stiff tenacity,
oval
memories of a possibility.
The weed is signaling me to shut up,
looks hurt.
I don’t know its name, I don’t like it.
It appeared in place of the
unfulfilled flowers.
I water it.
Special thanks to Arnold Isaacs for the English version.
© Kristin Dimitrova
© Kristin Dimitrova, translated from bulgarian
=============================
© E-magazine LiterNet, 12.07.2008, № 7 (104)