III / Manón Kübler

III

i am done with the drama, i suffer from a lack, from the brutal and mute howl at midnight, from insomnia, from debt, from the rigor coming through the windows or the age. i no longer have any crude stories that deserve to be told, i am unmoved by miserly forms and cold bodies. indifference called off its delicious game of killing me. i am evaporated of all passions. i went from agonized existence to the support of the bed, to the lifted feet of repose. i notice my transformations: women don’t scratch me their memories don’t dig into me when i get home, happy to have a house without dreaming of failure without aspiring to what is irrevocable to the abyss to the inert arms, forever inert on a mistreated body. i am not whipped by my philistine comments nor am i wounded by languages. my tongue’s magnifying glass doesn’t lose its composure over invented bodies it doesn’t seduce it doesn’t adore. i notice with horror, without bravery, that i am beginning to be happy.




{ Manón Kübler, Olympia, Caracas: Monte Ávila Editores, 1992 }