Untitled (a poem about asbest)



I grew up in houses full of asbest

as long as it does not crack it remain harmless they say

all kind of cancers hiding in the grey sheets

it's name became an icon, like Checheny - reminding pain and death



the first time I broke asbest was in front of my door, outside - just to hear what sound it would make

later I would do it inside, in the kitchen sink - to keep it wet

yesterday I grind it down - the powder is inside a jar

now the pot is in front of me, I opened it - waiting