Blood

Menstruation at forty, by Anne Sexton.
I was thinking of a son.
The womb is not a clock
nor a bell tolling,
but in the eleventh month of its life
I feel the November
of the body as well as of the calendar.
In two days it will be my birthday
and as always the earth is done with its harvest.
This time I hunt for death,
the night I lean toward,
the night I want.
Well then—
speak of it!
It was in the womb all along.

I was thinking of a son ...
You! The never acquired,
the never seeded or unfastened,
you of the genitals I feared,
the stalk and the puppy’s breath.
Will I give you my eyes or his?
Will you be the David or the Susan?
(Those two names I picked and listened for.)
Can you be the man your fathers are—
the leg muscles from Michelangelo,
hands from Yugoslavia
somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,
somewhere the survivor bulging with life—
and could it still be possible,
all this with Susan’s eyes?

All this without you—
two days gone in blood.
I myself will die without baptism,
a third daughter they didn’t bother.
My death will come on my name day.
What’s wrong with the name day?
It’s only an angel of the sun.
Woman,
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
bad spider—
die!

My death from the wrists,
two name tags,
blood worn like a corsage
to bloom
one on the left and one on the right—
It’s a warm room,
the place of the blood.
Leave the door open on its hinges!

Two days for your death
and two days until mine.

Love! That red disease—
year after year, David, you would make me wild!
David! Susan! David! David!
full and disheveled, hissing into the night,
never growing old,
waiting always for you on the porch ...
year after year,
my carrot, my cabbage,
I would have possessed you before all women,
calling your name,
calling you mine.

 

Ahora confirmo que no sabes lo que me has traído hoy.
Como un objeto sagrado que no te has atrevido ni a tocar
como algo ajeno.
Si lo hubieras leído no te hubieras zafado del pudor.
No te habrías atrevido.
Pero tenías razón, aun sin saberlo:
"si te gusta Silvia Plath te gustará".
Los juegos de coincidencias traen sorpresas a veces
y otras veces son la explicación.
A lo mejor existía un hilo antiguo
transparente y muy fuerte
que lo conectaba todo desde antes de conocerte
para que nada se pierda ni se olvide.
Aquí rescato lo que alguna vez escribí yo:

Dos son los días de dolorosos e inútiles coágulos
que se escurren de mi
como anestesia
en la primera y costosa meada tras una operación.
A qué soportar esto, mes a mes,
de mi cuerpo obstinado
cuando cada segundo estás más alejado
cuando cada momento es un millón de veces más difícil
que tus hijos se engendren en mi.
Que tu excelente genética superdotada
se mezcle con la mía, clarividente y brava
para hacer una bestia infortunada.
Tal vez mejor así.                                                1/8/12