XXIV / Manón Kübler

XXIV

now i know i won’t die tonight. if i pass by and go over lost amid splendors and beings i find myself in the form of the mirror that separates my neck from others. if climbing up intricate stairs and sustained by railings i have lived while falling now i know i won’t die tonight and it’s because i rest on the empty side of the bed, repeated side that i name in lower case letters, and number, and complained it goes in texts and i understand the void will continue even with the solid shadow of a beautiful girl resting. now i know. the extended hand seeking itself in the aridity in the lack bursting with that voice that stains the souls of children when i name and where you find the reigned space your children cover and where the dream is dictated while i wrote. and i know i don’t take control of the trigger because it’s not my voice that says goodbye for good to the fetishes i use to decorate my ideas, tonight which won’t be the last even if i want it to be and i feel like a demon with its slight cough and with the arrhythmia of my arms i perch on the machine for the lifting of the complaint nearly dead because i know this night is not.




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