Kinga Fabó
Kinga Fabó (November 1, 1953–March 4, 2021) studied in the Hungarian-English department of Eötvös Loránd University from 1972 to 1977. From 1978 to 1980, she belonged to Eötvös Loránd University’s humanities faculty. From 1981 to 1986, Kinga was on staff at the Research Institute for Linguistics of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, within the department of general linguistics. She was a candidate for the Academy between 1986 and 1989. Since the 1980s, she has published a number of poetry and essay collections, among them a bilingual Indonesian-English poetry anthology released in Jakarta in 2015. That same year, she received first prize in the 2015 Free Poets Collective International Poetry Contest in Middletown, Connecticut. She was the poetry editor for Diaphanous, an American journal of literature and the arts.
Can’t take it anymore. This distillate is too raw to me.
The beast wins out of beauty.
The scale goes off balance.
Let’s say: I’ll tell you. Let’s say: You’ll listen.
My dearest!
You congregator!
How should I use you?
Where am I in my body?
Without a body? I don’t know. Imaginary blue
like an imaginary sky.
They’re hanging in rich clusters.
He’d hide in one cluster, but
someone knows who he really is.
A few lap dances may fit in: I love it.
The way all these witches kill each other!
How jealous they are because of me!
Do I want life along with so many
conditions, me who is so defenseless.
My otherself stares before the mirror
and pushes through another domain:
(Sharon Stone swaps her legs.
She might catch up with me.)
Did I run ahead? How reckless.
she cajoles you to follow
the scent on the bodies
of every other women
do you recoil—on all?!
I am the stronger, the unprotected
Tough as a woman, austere.
Delicate as a man, fragile, gentle.
It’s not even hopeless.
Not vicious.
Serves the absence.
Delivers the unnecessary.
Yet both are men separately.
Ongoing magic. Broad topsyturviness.
Slow, merciless.
A new one is coming: almost perfect.
I swallow it.
Wandering tired lady aristocrats
Baronesses choked by their own shrivelled hair
Mannerism rococo Art Nouveau Baroque
Gothic laceneck serieses. Nothing but foolish
Young ladies.
Then came the odors.
The badly installed roots.
As corpus delicti.
On the operating-table.
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