In your stream, I dug my ocean. I lowered the anchor. It was hot, a perfect day for the beach. What a season. Mealtime. I feasted on your watermelon. My lips were red, pleasure's pits scattered around my mouth. You're a skilful sailor woman. The only female mate. With pubic hair in the shape of a clover, you ward off misfortune. You wear yellow boots and capes, when rains fall. We sail to the rhythm of the waves, oh what an Amazon. Among a hundred masts, mine you always squeeze between the clouds. We perspire crystal-clear lakes.
I don't think I ever was. I can't remember. Perhaps I would have been if I were born a boy, as you had wanted. You wouldn't have made me shout "I'm a naughty child" when you hit me in the womb. You wouldn't have locked me in the shed to be torn apart by monsters. You wouldn't have cut my hair so short. I'm still in that garden, Mother. That ugly daughter of yours. I scream for you to open the door. You turn off the light and go to sleep. Devils dance around me; I sing to make them quiet. Today, I'll try to see you. To tell you that I've forgiven you, that I love you. Nothing compares to you.
Lidia David
She pours boiling water, she adds the lye, she scrubs the floor with the brush. Her hands burn, her eyes well up. She wipes one of her hands on her apron and brings it to her forehead. Sweat trickles down her neck and heavy breasts, then towards her navel where it lazily pools before venturing to her pubis. She feels his hand in her hair, the shivers spread across his body; only the warmth of her thighs soothes him. Sap drips on her legs, the hand gathering it; she knows its every movement. From the door, a voice, My dear boyar, I've saddled the horses. He sighs, breath warm onto her skin: tonight, by the river.
(Translated by Marian-Cătălin Niculăescu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.