When you leave
I smiling hold
this soft furry
I don’t know what to call it
it moves round me
moves me round
tickling tingly ‘thing’
waiting to bounce out
and all those other shy soft places
waiting to be named
in subtler tones
waiting to bounce out
ah! so touchy tender ‘thing’
waiting to bounce out at you
when you get home
could it be.❞
Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze, “Could it be”
¡qué maravilla de tumblr tienes! ¡lo amé! :)
Ahhhh, ¡gracias! :D Me alegra que te haya gustado. Besos x
verdaderamente has visto
la nieve, los astros, los pasos afelpados de la brisa…
de verdad has tocado
el plato, el pan, la cara de esa mujer que tanto amás…
como un golpe en la frente,
el instante, el jadeo, la caída, la fuga…
con cada poro de la piel, sabido
que tus ojos, tus manos, tu sexo, tu blando corazón,
había que tirarlos
había que llorarlos
había que inventarlos otra vez. ❞
Julio Cortázar, “Para leer en forma interrogativa”
Estela de Carlotto (1996)
The last time I flew a plane, I crashed in the desert. The last time I flew a plane, I died. I am dying now.
I had three or six days of water with me, depending. Three good days or six bad days. If I had three days of water, I could work on my plane, I could walk on the sands in the heat of the sun, I would die before help found me. If I had six days of water, I could rest under the wing until the sun went down, and my hands would swell up, and the skin around my fingernails would blister, and I would see things that weren’t there, but I might live until help found me.
If help didn’t find me, I had no days of water. The boy found me on the last day of water, but he brought no help with him. He asked me to draw him a sheep.
What was a child doing in the desert, I asked him.
Everyone is a child in the desert, he told me. Draw me a sheep.
His face was smooth and unlined, like a child’s, but hands were puffed and wrinkled, like the hands of an old man. Like the hands of someone who is running out of water.
How did you get here, I asked him. Where do you find food, where do you find water.
Draw me a sheep and I will tell you, he said. I drew him a sheep and he smiled. I wish I had not drawn it. I wished he had not smiled.
Are there no sheep where you come from, I asked him.
Everything is dead where I come from, he told me. He put the drawing in his pocket.
I do my Sunday dreaming, oh yeah
And all my Sunday scheming
Every minute, every hour, every day
Etta James, A Sunday Kind of Love