It is written in my body
Flesh and bones,
Organs and tissues
Open books
You need to read
If you want to know me.
When you look at me,
What you see is written in my body
If you look closer
There are short stories and poems,
Dialogues, and haiku
There are stories of water and blood,
Stories of scratched knees,
Of bleeding feet, of smell of new dance shoes,
There are poems about endless love, and endless endings
About growing seeds, tiny hearts beating,
Rhymes about laughter, about peeing in your underwear,
There are plays full of touch and sex and passion, and then sleep.
If you look closer,
There are lines about baby powder, about tears, and insomnia,
There are a lullaby for a child,
And another lullaby for another child and another for another child,
And there is a lullaby for a lost one so tiny no one could hear it.
Open books my breasts, you read words of milk, of embraces,
Of fear, of lumps and red beauty spots, this is not the right expression, in Spanish you will read, "Lunares", like lunar in English, from the moon, you read.
There is finally an incomplete poem
Of growing old, and of dying,
You will read later,
Before I become ashes,
And that will be all.
Or not (there are some unpublished chapters, some hidden novels, about love and war and unmentionable themes.)
Image by Kevin Carrel
Organs and tissues
Open books
You need to read
If you want to know me.
When you look at me,
What you see is written in my body
If you look closer
There are short stories and poems,
Dialogues, and haiku
There are stories of water and blood,
Stories of scratched knees,
Of bleeding feet, of smell of new dance shoes,
There are poems about endless love, and endless endings
About growing seeds, tiny hearts beating,
Rhymes about laughter, about peeing in your underwear,
There are plays full of touch and sex and passion, and then sleep.
If you look closer,
There are lines about baby powder, about tears, and insomnia,
There are a lullaby for a child,
And another lullaby for another child and another for another child,
And there is a lullaby for a lost one so tiny no one could hear it.
Open books my breasts, you read words of milk, of embraces,
Of fear, of lumps and red beauty spots, this is not the right expression, in Spanish you will read, "Lunares", like lunar in English, from the moon, you read.
There is finally an incomplete poem
Of growing old, and of dying,
You will read later,
Before I become ashes,
And that will be all.
Or not (there are some unpublished chapters, some hidden novels, about love and war and unmentionable themes.)
Image by Kevin Carrel
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