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| Francesca Woodman |
Alguém que deveria ter
nascido
se foi.
Bem quando a terra
franziu sua boca,
cada broto saindo da sua
semente,
troquei meus sapatos e
então dirigi para o sul.
Passadas as Blue
Mountains, onde a
Pensilvânia infinitamente se curva,
vestindo, como um gato
desenhado, seu pêlo verde,
e suas estradas fundas
como um tanque cinza;
onde, na verdade,
maldosamente o solo abre
um buraco negro no qual o
carvão foi derramado,
Alguém que deveria ter
nascido
se foi.
a grama cheia e
resistente como cebolinha,
e me perguntando quando o
solo vai rachar,
e me perguntando como uma
coisa frágil sobrevive;
lá na Pensilvânia conheci um homenzinho,
não Rumpelstiltskin,
nem nada, nem nada…
ele tomou a completude do amor quando começa.
Voltando ao norte, até o céu mingou
como uma janela alta pra lugar algum.
A estrada era lisa como uma folha de lata.
Alguém que deveria ter
nascido
se foi.
Sim, mulher, essa lógica te leva a
perder sem a morte. Diga logo o que você quer dizer,
sua covarde… esse
bebê que eu sangrei.
---
The Abortion
Somebody who should have been born/ is gone. // Just as the earth puckered its mouth, / each bud puffing out from its knot, / I changed my shoes, and then drove south. // Up past the Blue Mountains, where/ Pennsylvania humps on endlessly, / wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair, // its roads sunken in like a gray washboard; / where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly, / a dark socket from which the coal has poured, // Somebody who should have been born/ is gone. // the grass as bristly and stout as chives, / and me wondering when the ground would break, / and me wondering how anything fragile survives; // up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man, / not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all... / he took the fullness that love began. // Returning north, even the sky grew thin/ like a high window looking nowhere. / The road was as flat as a sheet of tin. // Somebody who should have been born/ is gone. // Yes, woman, such logic will lead/ to loss without death. Or say what you meant, / you coward... this baby that I bleed.
The Abortion
Somebody who should have been born/ is gone. // Just as the earth puckered its mouth, / each bud puffing out from its knot, / I changed my shoes, and then drove south. // Up past the Blue Mountains, where/ Pennsylvania humps on endlessly, / wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair, // its roads sunken in like a gray washboard; / where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly, / a dark socket from which the coal has poured, // Somebody who should have been born/ is gone. // the grass as bristly and stout as chives, / and me wondering when the ground would break, / and me wondering how anything fragile survives; // up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man, / not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all... / he took the fullness that love began. // Returning north, even the sky grew thin/ like a high window looking nowhere. / The road was as flat as a sheet of tin. // Somebody who should have been born/ is gone. // Yes, woman, such logic will lead/ to loss without death. Or say what you meant, / you coward... this baby that I bleed.
