La femme n'existe pas

Painting by Juan Carlos Manjarrez

Won't you celebrate my breasts

and all the complexities pervading

the strange mission of being a woman,

or even the parenthesis contained between

my legs always open to my own

doubts?

Your Lacanian psychology

can't give an account of my lacks.

I am not your symptom.

How could a subject like me

be dissolved if your entire being

lies in my body? I can't lend myself

to your generalizations and assumptions.

All I can do is to sustain your (in)consistency,

I can't obey your mysterious logic though.

Won't you celebrate my condition

of poetry when your mouth faced me

with silence and awe?

In the beginning I must confess I desired

only. I used to think there was love

because you gave me the extent I didn't have.

It was a sweet paradox to deceive myself

when I knew what I wanted all the time.

The loneliness of love saturated me

for your words abandoned me when

the lights were on.

Aragon said that love is to lie truly:

You thought so little. I thought I loved you.

Our failure was so enthralling.

We shall sit and consider the fact

that I am not what you are

meanwhile we toast my uterus

for I still can co-create life

even when life I can't find in myself.

Karla Bardanza

La femme n'existe pas=Woman doesn't exist

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012