ella ante el espejo

Señoras y señores, he aquí una historia que no llega a hacer historia, es pelea por los cuatro costados y se derrama con uñas y con dientes. Yo soy Bella, soy ella, alguien que ni cara tiene porque ¿qué puede saber una del propio rostro? Un vistazo fugaz ante el espejo, un mirarse y des-reconocerse, un tratar de navegar todas las aguas en busca de una misma cosa que no significa en absoluto encontrarse en los reflejos. Los naufragios. El preguntarse a cada pasito la estúpida pregunta de siempre ¿dónde estamos? Dónde mejor dicho estaremos consolidando nuestra humilde intersección de tiempo y espacio que en definitiva es lo poco o mucho que tenemos, lo que constituye nuestra presencia en ésta. Esta vida, se entiende, este transcurrir que nos conmueve y moviliza.
—Luisa Valenzuela, Cambio de armas

los afectos maduran

Hoy apunto nuevas cosas viejas para recordar: naranja, tu sweater gris-naranja y el mío también naranja, disfrutar un poquito de tus celos, celitos, Earl Grey calmante, medias de florecitas rojas y blancas, risa la canción common people, Summit y clímax, es una cagada, y con vos el enojo se me pasa rápido, y qué tal ser un poco comprensiva?, y uno necesita alguien que lo rete, y besarte las mejillas sin afeitar y verte y seguir pensando que tu carita es linda, y ‘como hijito ajeno tú ya no duermes más en mi seno’ : y asi es todo muy lindo, recibir tu cariño madurando.


all in due time

Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered,
it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.

1 Corinthians 13: 4-8


ghosts and replicas

I look around: all women want to look the same.

The other woman’s nudity stands as the image of lovelessness.

Because for every man who didn’t love me there was always that other. The one who did deserve the love, the love I wasn’t getting.

She is everything I’m not. As I change, she changes. Whatever it is that I’m not, that’s what she is.

I hate her. I want to hurt her and her trite, repetitive, to-be-expected shape.

There is a place in my heart for self-love. I know it exists because my heart beats and I’m glad.

There is a place also for images that replicate themselves, ghost upon ghost, bodies that turn from people into objects by sheer repetition. Whoreangels of pornography.

My daily ritual of dressing and undressing has been altered.

Oh the delight of being looked at as a ripe juicy fruit and to want to be licked, to want to be had.

Preening, plucking, smoothing, shaving, oiling, brushing, lathering, rinsing, spraying, scrunching, painting, filing, wetting, drying, powdering, uncovering, perfuming, eating, not eating, making, making. Making a pretty little thing.

But the image in the mirror cries out for the eyes of self-love.

An old lover says: You are so very sexy. You know that? I say no. Then I say yes.

Well, the answer inside me is yes, yes, I know, but I just want to be loved. Think you can do that?

I recall another lover’s parting words: You are the most beautiful thing in this world. Never forget it.

And I know he meant the inside.

Thank you my friend.

I won’t. I won’t.


folds of memory

Warm belly in my heart
Soft skin in my heart
Wet mouth in my heart
Small hands in my heart
Wiry chest in my heart
Deep voice in my heart
Honey words in my heart
Strong hands in my heart
Hard legs in my heart
Wet tongue in my heart
Tight back in my heart
Soft face in my heart
Hard body in my heart
Belly fire in my heart
Fast breath in my heart
Hot spit in my heart
Panting in my heart
Strong neck in my heart
Empty words in my heart
Broken heart in my heart
Folded away, folded away


the bleeding rose

If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still I’ll be okay If I sit really still---
It is not possible.

My mind keeps shifting, shaking, moving: towards and away towards and away towards and away.

Zoom in. Aerial view.

There’s my heart on the ground. There’s the rest of my life.

The hunger rises and pounds at my temples.

Fruit smoothie at the T. Pineapple orange with a twist of lemon. I didn’t want the special, but he showed me the mangoes, “Brazilian, they’re not ripe.”

Cut to that summer day you were thirsty and cranky, like a baby. I teased you. I insisted on feeding you a smoothie. You were so glad and I, purely delighted. So sure I could take care of you. Give you my love, give you my sugar. Sweeten your life.

Tonight I got a smoothie to take care of myself. Two days ago, my friend had said, “But are you taking care of yourself?” And teasing: “...because, if you don’t, who’s gonna take care of you?” Making light of my existential heaviness, my feeling old at 29.

Have you ever been, she said, in a situation where a child argues with a parent, and the child says something really hurtful like ‘I hate you or ‘Get out of my life,’ then runs inside the room and shuts the door? And the parent might be hurt … but inside the child is really hoping that the parent will come in and hold him.

(An echo of your ‘I wish you had insisted on staying.’ It’s what you said later, about that night you’d told me to leave your apartment and never come back. I came back, remember?)

Yes, I said. It’s what we’ve been doing with each other.

She said, It doesn’t work so well in adult relationships. For some reason, adults ... will actually wonder if they’re truly wanted... and they ... will up the ante ... in more and more destructive ways.

Two children abandoned in fundamental ways. We want the same. But somehow can’t receive it.

I recoil in the quiet of my heart.

We lost each other as soon as we found each other: like a star, our love consumed itself in pure luminous fire. We can only make it out in retrospect: a trace of something past.

Too hot to last.

I’m still stunned, wordless, though I write. Nothing can describe how you fulfill so much of what Ive wanted since I remember having memory.

Protect me from my nightmares. Feed me milk from your body. Help me avert small disasters. Soak me with your body day after day. Try forever and ever.
If only we didn’t have to try so hard.

I can only write down what I love about you.

What I don’t -- your hurtful words, your careless acts -- they flutter like knife-winged butterflies inside my belly. Maybe they will quiet down in your absence, later on.

But right now they flutter and I don’t have peace, only the quiet of loss, of having something torn from my gut:

A bleeding rose in the center of my belly, my love for you.