At Times

Alaíde Foppa 

At Times

At times, she feels

like something left behind

in a dark corner of the house,

a fruit sucked dry

by scavenging birds,

a shadow without body, weightless,

a presence that barely stirs the air.

She feels that glances invade her,

that she becomes a kind of fog

in the clumsy arms that embrace her.

She would like to be 

a ripe orange in a child's hand—

instead of a hardening peel—

a bright reflection in the mirror,

instead of a fading shadow—

not heavy silence,

but a clear voice

that someone heard once.

A Day 

This cloudy sky

with its hidden storm

and foreshadowed rain

is weighing on me;

this still, heavy air

that won't stir

even the light

jasmine leaves

are drowning me;

this waiting

for what doesn't come

tires me.

I would like to be far

away, where no one

knows me, where

I am new, like

fresh grass;

light,

without the weight

of dead days,

free to take

neglected paths

to an open sky.

Exile

My life is

displacement, with no return—

a lost childhood, itinerant, 

with no home,

an exile without homeland.

My life sailed

on a ship of nostalgia.

I lived by the side of the sea,

gazing out at the horizon.

I thought of setting out

toward a neglected home

somewhere, but the trip

I imagined led me

to another port of call.

Is love, then,

the only harbor?

—Arms that held me captive

but gave no comfort, a cruel 

embrace I longed to escape from, 

and arms that pulled back,

that I reached for, all for nothing. 

Endless flight, endless longing—

love is no safe harbor.

There is no promised land

for my hopes, only a country

made of ruined desire,

a buried, ancient land

that from far away seems  

a lost kind of paradise.