PATHS OF THE MIRROR

                      I

And above all gazing with innocence. As if nothing were happening, which is true.

                      II

But I want to look at you until your face moves far from my fear like a bird on the sharp edge of night.

                      III

Like a little girl drawn with pink chalk on an ancient wall suddenly erased by the rain.

                      IV

Like when a flower opens up and reveals the heart it doesn’t have.

                      V

All the gestures of my body and my voice to make an offering out of me, the branch that leaves the wind on the threshold.

                      VI

Cover the memory of your face with the mask of the one you’ll be and frighten the little girl that you were.

                      VII

Their shared night dispersed with the fog. It’s the season of cold nourishment.

                      VIII

And thirst, my memory is of thirst, I below, in the bottom, in the well, I would drink, I remember.

                      IX

To fall like a wounded animal in the place that was going to be revelatory.

                      X

Like someone who doesn’t want something. Not a thing.
Sewn mouth. Sewn eyelids. I forgot. Inside, the wind.
Everything closed and the wind inside.

                      XI

Words turned golden in the black sun of silence.

                      XII

But silence is certain. That’s why I write. I’m alone and I write.
No, I’m not alone. There’s someone here who trembles.

                      XIII

Even if I say sun and moon and star I refer to things that happen to me.
And what did I want?
I wanted the perfect silence.
That’s why I speak.

                      XIV

Night takes the form of a wolf’s howl.

                      XV

The pleasure of getting lost in the premonitory image. I arose from my corpse, I went looking for who I am. Wanderer from myself, I’ve gone towards she who sleeps in a country to the wind.

                      XVI

My endless fall into my endless fall where nobody awaited me, since upon seeing who was waiting I saw none other than myself.

                      XVII

Something was falling in the silence. My last word was I but I was referring to the luminous dawn.

                      XVIII

Yellow flowers in a circular constellation of blue earth. The wind-filled water quakes.

                      XIX

Glare of the day, yellow birds in the morning. A hand unleashes darkness, a hand drags the hair of a drowned woman who doesn’t cease passing by the mirror. To return to the memory of the body, I have to return to my grieving bones, I have to understand what my voice says.