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
