by Itay Magen

Orange Tree

I could write forever, Matilda
Without ever getting up.
For the last time,
I take a deep breath in my memory and hold it.
Because I have so much to say?
Not.
Since I can remake a single shape in many things,
Since I can walk with the devil with one dice,
That’s why I let him win every time.

black tars in his nails he’s buried,
In my throat,
on my back
In my soul, which is less than twenty-one grams.
If I survive,
Here are the walls I’ve built that stop me
hitting
on and on
I’ll be livid.
But the walls don’t move an inch.
Like infinite…
Until I bleed.
Until I wake up.
Then all the chaos ends.
I cower under the orange tree in the glass cage that smells of books
I lick my ugly bruises.
I forget, then I let go of my breath.