Poetry by Clara Paiva


i examine the red stain on the sheets once more – shaped like a grapefruit, or like a

woman swallowed by the depths of a voice so ungodly i have no doubt it must’ve been

the wine. all of the evidence is here: its smell takes me back to the night i could almost

make sense of the words spewed by my viscera; its hue sings with the same carnal pitch

that made me drop the glass, still nearly full, on the floor; its lines are drunk on the

whole world. yes, it was the wine.

besides, my blood has been fully tamed since i started to thin. my blood doesn’t ever

scream, so i’m sure it was the wine.

Clara Paiva is a writer and musician from São Paulo, Brazil. Her work has appeared in Occulum.

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