When plants and pictures against the wall have
the same interbalance as the distance I keep
from the living, it’s a polarized position for me.
Searching beneath armchairs,
I try to catch the butterfly’s breath,
for a tingling gentle notion
in my immediate sanctuary.
Outside my window
flowers grow wanting to be a posey,
so they may walk through flames
and love; leaving ashes in their wake.
It’s blue agile and irreversible.
I remove my belt, my skirt, and toss my sandals to the corner,
but retain my knotted ponytail.
I laugh descending my body to insomnia with docile wakes
only aware of my nakedness
when my hair touches the tip of my shoulder
as a sheared-eye looks at me from above:
Enervating I wait for suspension to it all,
feeling goose bumps overtaking me,
I pause my smile.
Is it only fear where joy can’t exist?
Neglecting these efforts like a stranger to the precarious lamp’s light
bringing my fingers to the edge of the blue sheets
I touch them running along the seam,
all has become a dream.
Our indifference to life is because life kills ours and others.
It’s worthless and natural,
life and death are inseparable.
Every time life loses significance,
the second becomes irrelevant.
Process notes: The last stanza is loosely translated and slightly rearranged words by author Octavio Paz, but essentially what he was saying in “El Laberinto de la Soledad”.