Blotting
I want to be the hare, the bridge, and the act of it crossing it. The lightning inside a monsoon, eating mulberries for a change. A worm smaller than a pinky nail, through the moss in the sun; I am burning, and I crave for water; I wish the shadow, as life glazes childishly around me. My days as moth being gone, I met the soil with such conviction: the leaves praises while the storm condones me. And it is long gone the times to which it was arbitrary; waves aren’t relentless, we just do not understand other positions.
As a hare, I meet my fate when human fists grabbed me by my ears; it didn’t matter to avoid the water: see, the bridge won’t keep no spoil down there. Hour went. I, far from agaves, keep running in the wind.
Beams of sun have returned. All plants kept alive through our season. The monsoon got at least to witness the first rice harvest. Watched in stupor the old couple advance above the earth, hands reaching. Lightning mourned its own shone shine, such urge was to — now — congratulate.
A wee-one gave worm a place. Fearfully, took it in her hands from the wall of greenies to the cabbage orchard her grandma grew. Will the worm grow bigger too, wonders the answerless child. And jets out, there’s some ice cream left. The tiny annelid cherishes its well-desired long night, alone.
Its grave is so deep it meets the fossilized siphonophore it was eons ago. It eagered to shout they brethren were, alas it could only wander more, as its limbs mushroomed lower, glad to prepare home for its next life.
The oceans found another pattern. As it is in momentary state, the waters forsake it, belaying waves’ stances. Thoroughly, patches of waves expelled from their mushy eden: movement keeping, warmth cramping, salt relapsing. Sounding as chimes. The beach is born.
I am dinner tonight. The hunter’s wife carefully seasons me. My bridge quietly rains by as my spine is gently removed. Yet I am running. Yet I can hear, and yet I can see. So mustn’t I say?
–16 jan. 2023–
O DESASTRE ESPERA O MAL-INTENCIONADO POR TODOS OS CANTOS […] Estas espadas, dispostas e bem firmadas em formato circular, com uma Lebre vacilante ao centro, representam a nós que o recôndito não é de maneira alguma concedido a agressores, seja no campo ou na cidade, ou em em quaisquer outros lugares em corpo e espírito. Pois dentre ambos — os lugares infinitos e também as escrituras de Moisés — foi-se dito: a espada há de destruí-los quando longe e atemorizá-los no lar.
