My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie. Nobody understood why. Mama believed that Marie was the secret name of his mother who was an actress. As far as I know my grandmother’s name was Lucrecia, and she was no actress. She was born into a religious family. Her uncle was a bishop. I have no idea how Mama came up with this story about my grandmother being an actress and having a secret name.
I cannot write anymore. If you want me to do it, you will have to lock me in the library. Only there silences become words, and words become soft and puffy like two humongous winter breasts glowing in the last rays of a sweet and sticky sunset.
Yesterday, I got lost in the sacrality of the winter carnival with its colors and aromas of musicality, and its hands of poetry extended to the moon and beyond.
Oh, no, you locked the library door.
I start knotting the thin rosy bodies of the quiet words that make the four thousand volumes that reside in here. An aerial bridge extends over the world. Dressed in a full-moon regalia, I walk on it. Around me birds amalgamate the winds of the North with those of the South. I see stars floating on the seas. Blue meadows wave to me.
I cry. My tears reach the earth, and each and one of them grows into a new poem.
I love how you dress for weddings: the repetitive movements of your fingers when you knot your bow-tie and that splendid nakedness of the white rose on your lapel, a true nuditas virtualis that makes me dream of the birth of a god in the zodiacal sign of Virgo.
I miss the glow of your face in the candlelight, the vibration of the wine glass’ crystal stem between your fingers, the memorable tunes of the waltz coiling around your senses.
It is dark. I lay on the sofa and the smell of pain killers and sedatives dwells in my nostrils. I can hear the noise of the withered leaves coming from outside. It frightens me. The sweetness of the nuditas virtualis fades away. I think of Emma Bovary, the so-called narcissistic self-deluded character, the adulterous woman, the daydreamer, the nuditas criminalis par excellence.
How pathetic and enslaved by time our judgments are. If Emma were a man, she would have had the masculine license to thirst for the feminine. No judgements would have been passed. There is no masculine equivalent of Emma Bovary in literature. Profoundly telling, don’t you think?
Emma committed the mortal sin of having affairs. She killed herself as self-punishment, we are told. How ignorant people who think so are. Turn the page and think of Emma as the woman who pitied the birth of her own daughter. Have you ever stopped to think why she would do that?
Those winds and the frightening noise of the withered leaves.
Where are you?
You do not visit anymore. You forgot your white rose on the head on my sofa. I need to tell you again. I love how you dress for weddings.
We are pleased to announce the Barista Favorite from March 19th’s Promote Yourself Monday at Go Dog Go Cafe. It is short-prose-fiction’s poem i am your soul. You can read more of short-prose-fiction’s writing at Short Prose look for me my love my body shines like lightening striking down from Mount Olympus i’m in the […]
