Christina Strigas

I want more

of what I cannot have

and less of what I have.

It is always the poem of the day

that brings me joy

written in some notebook

or on a piece of paper

from an obscure poet

that I research in the middle of a lineup

of free coffee.

Where do you come from?

I tried to answer that question once

but failed miserably.

Such vagueness requires a multitude

of tides

each with its own seashell story.

I try to be normal

but fall flat on my face.

I am raising my children too freely

I should restrict them

deny them

border them up

but I show them to fly instead

and when they leave me too

I will cry

for not holding them closer

than I should have

like all the Greek mothers before me.

I know I speak too much of this and that

and I…

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