My mother's lovers

Short stories, or rather, dangerous confessions in forms that exceeded the boundaries of the familiar and unconventional story. They carry within them an audacity beyond audacity, as they talk about family, society, the world, religion, and the inflamed boundaries between women and men. But it is an audacity that leaves no evidence of its conviction. As soon as you reach the point of raising accusing fingers and calling the writer this or that, she quickly backs down. It does not let you calm down as it wanders with great frequency into the strange and suspicious world of the night, and on the banks of permissible love and heartbreaking love. And in the world of friendships and attachment to time and liberation from it; and it surprises you at the crossroads of phrases and paragraphs. It is characterized by the strangeness of the topics and the strangeness of its approach, in a climate where it is easy to exchange kisses, insults, lovers, and even homelands. You think it is talking about an ordinary mother and father; But you hardly discover that the matter is beyond that, as if she were summarizing a continent in a woman, or a woman in a continent. My mother’s arms are two forests of sugar cane. Her legs are runaway horses. Her body sways like a bottle of wine in the forest of night. I become my mother, interlocking my fingers with the hand of a poet my mother abandoned, and I become his lover. Stories that radiate magic and remain more beautiful than any writing about them.