I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. (Virginia Woolf) We become ourselves through others, and the self is a porous thing, not a sealed container (Siri Hustvedt) En vez de mirarme en mi espejo quiero que mi espejo se mire en mí (Alejandra Pizarnik)
From this half moon of glass
I thought I was observing the world from up above
but there’s another world, that world, which observes me
up there, beyond the other half moon and mine, beyond the sea.
I am in the middle, you know
I sleep in a silky cradle, soft and solitary
between light and dark, I dream of rainbows
and I feel it; there must be someone up above.
My eyes cry mother’s stars
I’ve been left alone. Father’s gone.
My skin white as an orchid
Burns into a new light
Into the darkness
Of this flat life.
I’m half a moon of glass
Feminine but sexless as angels are.
Between day and night
Half orchid, half child
I’m more than half a sea,
as my eyes cry mother’s stars.