marina tziara

THE BECHDEL TEST

By Marina Tziara

“We had centuries of failure, we need a successful Saint”.

Terrence Malick

(A work passes the Bechdel Test if it meets all three of the following criteria:

It has at least two women in it,

Who talk to each other,

About something other than a man.)

I woke up in a hospital bed. And you?

I woke up in a hospital bed, cables and poison ivy.

I woke up in a police station, and I was made from the same material as the tiles — probably marble

or gesso — where all squares connect in perfect unison.

I woke up in a hospital bed after being in a police station, a unison.

I walked with my best friend to a hospital, after briefly visiting a police station — the ambivalent bliss

of holding her hand and tears.

I ran into a police station. I was told to leave. I met a bird who gave me one wing and a map of a

tunnel.

I woke up in my bed full of bruises, morphine-red haze, and a few doctors around — a few bees as

well.

I woke up again and again without having slept in centuries. Do you also come from a lineage of

sleepless women?

I woke up tired in my house after revisiting the police station, a colourless haze looking at you from

the mirror.

I woke up next to my daughter. She was weeping. She was a bee, and the hive was abandoned.

I slept next to my mother; she was staring at the ceiling, motionless. No honey for today, just panting.

I slept on my cousin’s couch after going to the police station. She slept on my couch after peeing

herself.

I slept on your couch with my two daughters, next to our suitcase and your cat. I thought I had taken a

shower below my waist, but I was simply humid.

I slept in the park — it was the best night I’d had in ages. I also come from a lineage of women

created to work, eternally, in paradise.

I slept in a foreign country without a passport — the oceanic restlessness of going home to be at home.

I slept at my office, pretending I had too much work.

My mother slept on a plane, and her face was so peaceful it made me ache.

I ran as fast as I could down the main road with my phone at 3% battery. I had no knife to cut the

wind — but what a joke, the thick curtain was just tears and longing.

I ran to the bathroom, locking the door. It never holds; this is not a secret.

I ran to the balcony — and then I jumped. The bird gave me another wing and a kiss, and while its

lips were detached from mine, I touched the obol with the tip of my tongue.

Freedoms crossing the river Styx. Nothing to mourn here, we are all numbers.

You and I ran to my grandma’s house at 4 in the morning, red-cheeked in the full summer night.

I spent a third of my life running half marathons, and still, when I had to run for my life, I stayed still.

I ran from the kitchen to the apartment door, holding my own life in my hands, holding my open

wound. Parts of her had now clambered out of the tiles’ unison — a new music score.

I ran to my car while losing my only child for the fourth time.

I ran to the neighbour’s door, trying not to look bewildered.

She ran towards me and fell into my arms, whispering thank you.

I ran to another country, another home, another continent, another job, another family.

I keep running towards the most exquisite situations, hoping you could be there with me.

You, and you.

And the other one.

And the one who never had a voice. And the wasps and the bees who keep buzzing.

And the young one with the curly fiery hair.

And the Spanish one whose name we forgot.

And the old one who cannot run anymore, but remembers every bit of it.

The desire to flee is your female heritage — your cursed superpower.

Homelessness and soft skin. A migration of spirits. White spirits désaromatisées.

The last thing I remember is a cloth. And you?

Fire. And you?

A boat full of daughters and young boys.

The floor of my apartment, cold as my skin.

I remember many beeps and hospital lights. My saliva at sea level.

Praying to a God I never truly believed in.

I remember her name on my phone at 2 a.m., calling three times and never calling back.

I remember loud voices and soil.

A hand on my mouth.

I remember no fear — just elation, like a morphine colourless haze, the one from my early life.

I remember my daughter’s face.

And my mother on the kitchen floor.

I remember yelling and the smell of bleach.

I remember being the sea.

Rivers and volcanic leaves. Skin flakes.

Autumn breeze and ponds.

I remember being seen somewhere I shouldn’t have been — naughty or illegal.

I remember talking to strangers.

A temple on a cliff.

I remember bareback riding — being a mare with you on me, your legs spread, rubbing my rib cage.

I remember holding your mane and feeling wild, free, and mostly dehydrated.

I remember running away and still carrying in my guts all the fear of the ones who couldn’t open this

door.

She remembers pushing down that door handle, guided by the voices of the ones who never woke up

to run under the fifth sun.

I remember that exiles taste as good as liberties.

I remember waking up on a hospital bed, morphine-red haze, reminded that our lives have the same

metallic flavour as exiles.

And you?