Oil comes out of her kneecaps.
Her knees are oozing with oil.
On a good day you can accumulate
A half-litre bottle,
By dragging the lip along her skin,
Catching unctuous drops.
And what can you do about that?
The doctors just hold consultations;
At least they haven’t sounded off to the press.
Her relatives are already used to her
Always wearing those snug black
Leggings with special padding
On the knees to soak up all the droplets.
Oil is her daily routine.
She even keeps an eye on prices,
Market fluctuations, like someone’s pulse,
Slightly feverish, dynamic, alive,
And unfathomable. Lately
She feels like she’s a whole
Oil-producing nation herself–
A state, confident of its own significance.
Look how she crosses the street,
How she laughs, goes shopping.
So what if she gets rid of the oil
In the bath, wiping away heavy black drops
Again and again. In this life of ours
She has oil. What have you got?