her body was a pear,
one of the biggest pears.
eyes painted deep into her head,
baking powder tucked under her arms,
strawberries in her cheeks.

her story—
a rancid pie with a fortune inside,
one she forgot to read.

but her little shop
smelled of almonds.

Miss Marieta,
I was too young.
I didn’t understand much.

when all the children had their games,
and I never felt like fiting in,
you opened my appetite for a unique language:
the love of sugar,
of solitude,
the love of light, threatened
by the blade of night,
when sugar hardens on pastries
in the back of the fridge.

if she died, I don’t know...
I haven’t seen her in years.

her little shop has whitewashed windows.
in the park, the bench bent by her hips
has no soul anymore.

the air around—
the inner world of a mute.

today, pies are made everywhere.
and only frozen.

Miss Marieta
this figure —
somewhat indie,
somewhat full of horror,
in the trembling of her hips.

her white apron, a baker’s robe...
I never knew
if it smelled of bleach
or almonds.

I ate her extra-vanilled pies,
and her fat woman’s gaze,
watched over my gaze
with anticipated pity.

what a lady,
Marieta...

even her name reminds me
of these strange brown little things.
this woman will stay with me forever,
for she was born to smell
of almonds

and sadness.