from Garlic Soup and Mezcal

Florencia Walfisch

When the world was big
like the antechamber of an empty world without wings or valleys
without regions of earth and without air in the heart and eyes
without your voice splitting my body like a desperate sign of life

in my life when I used to get drunk drowning my mature heart and my

two tits
firm witnesses of your darkness scattering
in a time without duration without regions and without air

when the world was a big antechamber of the world
and your voice opened a space between me as between me and the only
possible place however


She crosses a plaza. a man devours her feet and chokes. she screams out like a man in the middle of the dark. now she can't move except in her thoughts. the music sounds like midnight and rain. her crotch fills with suns, in a figurative sense. in a strict sense, it's wet. her heart feeds on recounting profane things. they tell her to make a straight black skirt. she imagines that in the creases of what's missing something remains. in her hands an empty suitcase. it's immense with youth and that's how it's aged. she crosses a plaza. her heart spills white blood. the wind brushes against the wet from before. his lips scream out when the night arrives. four men say you are fire, you are made of fire. it's not raining in oaxaca.


She saves the geography of her memory for another hour. a body travels in the subterranean time of words. always time drains away when she writes for someone. she draws a man barefoot, a woman barefoot; some naked shoes. her other voices collide with someone else's ascent. there is no image in the traveling image. it's the duration of a person in her own person. it's a voice that shifts to say now me.


I paint, on the white surface I trace the decomposition of absence. a color like

a giant ocean where I put to rest the necessity of what I ignore. I wake up in faraway place where I'm still a prisoner of dreams. I distill what works for me in the night, what works in me, with me. with the memory of what I'm attempting. on the white surface I trace the decomposition of absence.


Bit by bit the sun defines shadows. invisible thread of what wakes and the absence returns to her skin as if lasting. the slow, certain march to the middle. after, imperceptible, the decline of the day returning. the interior laughs at her shadowy identity. the interior laughs with so much complicity. after the darkness is the illusion of a flood. of dissolution. a body that thinks of its solid identity and turns into a seed. the seed pushing on its horizon until it sprouts. it sprouts until screaming, abysmal in the sound, it breaks. the wound reorganizing itself as offspring until flooding. (the flooding breaks all the edges of the sea).

translated from the Spanish by Alexis Almeida