Versión: Isaías Garde
La madre es un arma cuya
carga sos vos, pequeña bala.
La madre es un cristal a través del cual
te ves, con vergonzosos detalles, a vos mismo.
La madre es un paisaje.
Fijate que ella piensa en un árbol
y forma un bosque con ese repetido pensamiento.
Antes de la invención de la cursiva
la madre es manuscrito.
La madre es cielo.
Mirala, vestida con un manto de estorninos,
cómo lleva el zumbido de las alas sobre sus hombros.
La madre es un prisma.
La madre es un revólver.
Mirá cómo pasa la luz a través de ella.
Mirá cómo abre fuego.
The Mother
The mother is a weapon you load
yourself into, little bullet.
The mother is glass through which
you see, in excruciating detail, yourself.
The mother is landscape.
See how she thinks of a tree
and fills a forest with the repeated thought.
Before the invention of cursive
the mother is manuscript.
The mother is sky.
See how she wears a shawl of starlings,
how she pulls the thrumming around her shoulders.
The mother is a prism.
The mother is a gun.
See how light passes through her.
See how she fires.
The mother is a weapon you load
yourself into, little bullet.
The mother is glass through which
you see, in excruciating detail, yourself.
The mother is landscape.
See how she thinks of a tree
and fills a forest with the repeated thought.
Before the invention of cursive
the mother is manuscript.
The mother is sky.
See how she wears a shawl of starlings,
how she pulls the thrumming around her shoulders.
The mother is a prism.
The mother is a gun.
See how light passes through her.
See how she fires.
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