BÝLÍ

I
Dad folded the cardstock once more
and put small scissors in my hand.
Here you can cut.
Not here.
Don't worry, the heart won't fall apart.
We sewed the edges with red embroidery floss,
drew rose blossoms with markers
and in the middle they left a tiny little door.
Into it a photograph was slipped,
so that the heart would know,
for whom it was made.
Everything back then was for mom.
Hearts,
stars,
the little things I knew how to make
cut out of love.
Many years later
we laid side by side
two childhood photographs.
We didn't know each other upon them,
and yet a space opened up between them,
in which we played together.
We laughed at the stories,
which we both had known for a long time,
fooling around without judgment,
touching without shame
and for several months
we were children
who had finally found each other.
We managed to live through an entire childhood,
even though we never had it together,
even though we never experienced it together?
Now on the small table two photographs
next to each other.
One after death,
second after the decision.
The peace between them
makes no difference.
I clench my fingers,
as if I were still holding scissors in them,
and I'm cutting a star out of the air for you.
When I close my eyes,
I see her.
Is it you,
or just the light of you
that remained?
And if I am that star,
for whom am I still shining
in a place where the universe
hasn't learned to connect the constellations?
I open my arms wide.
There is nothing in them.
Just light passing through the cutout space.