... all women levitate, at the reach of their own hands.

of white and black and red also and black

my fingers smudge something in the blue ink of the pen 

I still have pens, I make it a point

to still have pens

with which I do not write that a new world is being born

with flat shiny lavender walls.

In it, women and walls mingle their bodies of womenly women

dressed in black and red and mostly black

with enormous wavy skirts where litres of olive oil

are smuggled onto Spain

while the children, the countless children

jump and scream and ask for water and bread

and the olive oil frying underneath the black

wavy skirt

under which all her children where safe

safe from hunger

underneath the skirts where the hips swayed

dragging litres and litres countless litres

of olive oil

to Spain.

And who would mistrust the heavy maternity

of such wide mother that didn't rock the trees

nor screamed the screams

but loved those shiny round olives smashed

underneath the rocks of the mill

the countless rocking of the mill,

was that you Mill girl? Did he die?

He died, but not I.

I am the Mill girl.

I write there is a new world being born

where the walls are flat and shiny and lavender  

and women

all women

levitate, at the reach of their own hands.