Amalie Cimala – Listopad

Cherry Tree

Mother Tongue,

do I only think of you

when i fall asleep

the lies I told myself about you

that I could never have you

There wasn’t enough of you in me

I wasn’t really


I can’t really 


the softness of the 

summer light

on the bridge of 

her nose,

old cherry bark,

the pear tree 

chopped down last summer

mother tongue

I was born,

with you etched into my veins

the cuts in the old cherry tree;

it blooms every summer

but only for a little bit,

or just enough,

When everyone wants

to pick them,

we just laugh

‘go ahead’

because we don’t want

them to rot

sticky red fingers

old faded clothing stains,

they could never wash out

they picked at Oma’s old cherry tree

until nothing was left

mother tongue,

if there’s so much of


why is there so little for me?

why do you fade

every winter

almost hiding in a cave,


why do you choose to go away?

maybe i just didn’t work

hard enough,

to regress your slow lonely fade,

but I promised myself to make you stay

what the old cherry tree,

falls down,

no longer cherry juice,

but blood on my hands

what if the old cherry tree falls down,

will you too go away?

Sticky summer,

every year since 08’

that I subconsciously 

tried to make you stay,

plane flight

take you home,

grasping you with 

my sticky fingers


My life is measured in increments

of summers,

of school years passed bye,

continents and barriers,

and yet;

It’s slipping through my fingers again,

I grew an inch,

a centimeter,

its slipping through my fingers again,

because I didn’t even take a breath,

and it’s spring again

I complained about sweaters

now i don’t have blouses to wear


and I tell myself that

I don’t hate the fall,

I only miss it when it’s over,

and it’s over, 

it’s the monotony

because seasons cycle,

Older like the old sycamore 

tree that sheds its leaves

every autumn 

And then it,

grows out again


I’ve done it all,

I cut my hair,

I grew it out again,

I’ve been beautiful and disgusting 

and ive

felt like an adult

but also as such a child,

I’ve broken my pencil


thousand times 

trying to describe the feeling

like i’m floating-


or also I’m looking

at my life through a looking 

glass but it’s not mine?

will I create art or,

will my cold hard body

get buried into the 


with no thoughts

exiting my brain

into paper?



that’s what everyone uses


a better life,

better opportunities,

just better

ok so,



suffocated them,

until they couldn’t breath,

until every movement

was monitored,

every liberty forbidden,

they wanted better,

the coal mines that chalked up

his lungs

God that couldn’t be real if you wanted,

so maybe a suitcase,

a deck of cards,

and you’ve set yourself 

out for the grimy streets

of San Francisco 

where the weather is never good


but maybe you like it,

so its 


just finefinefine 

and maybe that’s ok.


count every penny,

don’t slip up,

state your value,

like a coin on the market,

because they’ll try to take you

into their grimy hands,

30 years, thirty!

better, better, better,

but you still miss


Because the summers in San Francisco 

don’t make your clothes 

cling to your body with sweat,

and yeah

you always liked the metric system better,

that’s not what you really miss,

because you can’t even be in the

same time zone 


I looked out onto my face, 

examining every inch

wondering what was wrong,

what was there to fix,

smudge more makeup

on my eyes

it didn’t look better,

took my hair down,

put it back up,

maybe I shouldn’t have cut it

last September 

when I just wanted

to know 

what it felt


I step away from the 


until I am as far away as 

I can get

until my eyes are

black welts stitched 

onto my face

maybe I look

better from far away,

is this how they see me?

but then I close my eyes



that I’ll always 

have my father’s 

eyes diluted with

my mother’s

the bump on my nose

 from my grandmother

if there’s nothing wrong,

With them,

then what happened to me?


It weighs down on me,

Settle’s against my shoulders,

shoving the blades into each other,

until my bones grate against each other

Dissolving into fine dust,

equivalent to stars in the sky,

it’s fleeting, isn’t it?

One day I’ll no longer



I’ll wait for one to die,

lines will continue to etch in

our faces,

my body will change

and scars will stretch

my life stretches before my


youth just a blimp

in my timeline,

everyone is just a tiny,

 speck in my



Sunset or sunrise,

sometimes I don’t even

think about them,


they don’t exist,

only when mentioned,

they pollute my mind

they are characters in my head,

nine hours,

between the continents and the sea

I remember when I didn’t think 

about it

when I was little

maybe free

nine hours,

I wake up and you 

go to sleep

tell me about 



tell me about your day,

because mine hasn’t even happened yet


I watch it as I think about it all 

The hums of the waves drowning out

Their silent screams

Spanning across centries 

They crash and collide;

Evening out again 


How they were before 

Their perfect normal 

Encased in pearlescent foam

Returning to the basin of water

That cut ties to once home

Ellis island 

And a plane in ’78

Sometimes I look and 


Into it all 


Chcete vědět 

Pro nesnáším moře?

Vy nevíte jaké to je,

America není krásná jak v fotkách 

Co vám posílám 

Dívám se na moře 

Bo ví ste na druhé straně 

To co milujete 

Nás odděluje;

Vdit ti nesnášíš vítr

A slané vlasy v na rtech,

a já 

Furt jsi je rukama třu 


Ale jo,

Nakonec je to tak krásně

že člověk ani nepochopí jak

Je to možné 

Ale proč vlastně se tomu věnovat 

Když to nic nezmění?



Zapomenu dýchat 

V tvých modých oči 

Je to 




Grandma’s Jeans/ Grandpa’s Jacket

Grandma’s jeans,

Did you hate the pocket size?

did you rip the seams,

and sew them up again?

I did,

I ripped the seams,

and sewed them up again

but differently then you did,

decades ago

Grandpa’s jacket,

Traveled across state lines,

flew across the pacific,

Everything that happens with time,

worn and the sleeves,

but still navy blue,

color of the flag(s)

of what he called home,

But it wasn’t 


It’s a little chilly,

and a fly is perched

on the bench I sit

on and the 

sun is setting

but they pushed

time back an hour

in attempt to play


and my hair doesn’t 

brush my shoulders

because i pinned it up-

and the wind swishes

past my bare legs

like metallic 

silver fish in a pond I once



the fog rolls over 

the hill with the

blue house as I’ve

seen multiple times


just in different 



when my hair was longer


last year too

That “kolibřík”

(because i don’t know how 

to say it in English)

sings a little

too loud its

restless tone 

should dull out

with the fountain water

and maybe I should

leave with that old

man sitting next to 


but i knew if I was 

a boy

I’d probably make

conversation and smile,

but instead I grip my

pen by the neck

with a chokehold,

but i know

gel ink never shatters,

and my heels

and feet burn like dying

coals but in a soothing

way of walking

and the “kolibřík”

is still singing

and the fountain never


wind strokes my

hair, tempting it

to fall out

stand by strand

out of its style

the sun slowly 

sets behind this 

beautiful San Francisco 

yet it illuminates 

my page as if

begging me not

to leave,

but the wind

tugs me towards


up the hill