NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2015 Volume 15.2 - Page 74

By JAVIER MEDINA BERNAL and that my mother would struggle to close them. But at least, in some manner, I’d make things easier for worms, they’d go to my eyes, to my belly, to my withered genitals; always available the worms, fat, squishy, moist and hungry, and I couldn’t cry any longer, there would no longer be any music, or beer, or woman, or dead brother, or broken heart, or books, or warmth, or drunken parents, or ruined grandmas, or foreign and frugal loves. I told myself then: I’ll be a pond full of dead leaves, lime, frogs and salamanders, and it’ll be the wind who tells, not the rain. But I’ll not hear the wind. And I said: you, girl, promise me, say you’ll never die, and that, should you do, it’ll be with closed eyes. Promise it. 40 However, I was born of the scream and must play with fear. However, I was born of the night and must play with the dark. However, I was born of poison and must play with scorpions and serpents. However, I was born of the absence and must play with silence. However, I was born of the wound and must play with the sword. However, I was born of the soldier and must play with the nation and her flags. However I was born of death and must play with death. It’s still raining. Lion. Lamb. Dead human. Well. Fallen breasts. 72 54 The dying woman will never die. She shall endure the bad times, the abuses, the demon of love. The woman will eat the love. She’ll be famished yet will never lack food, she’ll feed of the mud she carries in her hands. In the end, which is not the end, she’ll go quiet and naked under the blue guitar.