by Raquel Salas Rivera
no one teaches us to accept death because death, that canned death, stays empty inside: the great hole of fuck it that wants to devour us. no one explains how we can become part of the impossible new world that is tomorrow, or how we are supposed to avoid falling into the perfect and permanent under eye circle we call facing the day. mana, how not to understand? that is the question i avoid with the organizational fervor of a rescue team that never arrives, but i’ll tell you this: desire isn’t always followed by death. sometimes i run into you in the street and you shine like an orb or a solar lamp, but you are still worth more than all the generators (in case you haven’t been told a thousand times). y other times, without tilde, i.i.i. other times, your words reach me like a fundraiser that explodes and temporalizes truth, like an espachurrao (squashed? flattened? spread?) aguacate on the sidewalk, green-grey from so much loving. we first have to find better answers than these automatic things. i don’t say this to add responsibilities, but rather so that you know, sister, that the attempted murder comes from within, like the last refuge of a cowardly colonialism. come here and i’ll give you food and shelter while i have it, que te añoño, will (cuddle? spoil? hold and rock and sing?) you, and will duplicate the hugs. i can’t heal the fathomless, but what kind of world would this be without you. what kind of world is this that harrasses you. without rescue, let’s speak of the future. not as realists, not as visionaries, let’s speak of the future because we will find it in a moth-eaten rug, in the tea of the drunken tree, in the buenos días, there is coffee of a confused and sincere embrace. we have a bed and we remember.
Last updated November 07, 2022