NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2015 Volume 15.2 - Page 78

By MAR ALZAMORARIVERA CONFESSION Somehow everything comes with an expiry date. Swordfish expires. Meat sauce expires. Even cling-film expires. Is there anything in the world which doesn’t? Wong Kar-wai, Chungking Express Yesterday I made a list of everything you represent. I filled a page with crayon scribbles until I ran out of room. I looked for words to name you, I couldn’t get past naked, Serrat, patches. I don’t know why, suddenly, the void filled up with the expiration date that everything in this world has. “What, when all is said and done, 76 will ours be?”, I thought. EARTH I built a life where there’s nothing but wreckage, I drew a man straight out of a poem, made a heart out of fugues and abysses, I rolled around in your furrows, barefoot, to sow myself. Sow us. But that land, yours, was imaginary. There was no life, no man, no heart, no sowing. Nothing. My seed never existed. Neither did your furrow.