On the birth of solitude (Part I)
In the word and in the silence,
in the gaze and in the body.
I believe in the fertilized seed
that is both origin and destiny.
In the announced agony
that has a name and that has an end.
I believe in inflicted wounds
that will be signifier and
meaning of nothing-
a wretched attempt and a half.
I believe in the salt that bursts forth in streams,
bubbling in the saliva,
in the legs of a glass
and on the edge of life.
In the morning and in the cold,
in what I was and will no longer be.
I believe in those who manage to hide
and in the reasons they found to do so,
in what heals through its absence
and in the rain without reason.
I believe in the flower and in the grass,
may whoever cuts them
be nourished by flower and grass.
The earth lay one afternoon, sick with solitude.
Photography by Issac Moroni Cordero Escobedo.
Writer and psychologist working in education. Fond of letters, cloudy skies, music, my people, coffee, and mezcal.