by Cecilia Resio

She was open, like a door.
Her legs were pages, they were streaked with blood like cheeks.
Above, her chest was open wide like a gentle window,
half-closed on the stale air.
Can you see it?
Can you see it, doctor? That is my heart.
The doctor positioned the stethoscope on the floor.
My tears had always been the ones that moved intents.
The doctor auscultated my tears fallen at my feet.
I felt my wavy hair become sea foam.
I felt my pupils multiply and pay a visit to every house,
to the gardens, I looked at the tyres dangling, pretending they were swings.
I heard myself speak all the languages of the world.
At a certain point somebody screamed at me,
Words like furious rain, terrific and diagonal rain,
words like winter drops on the windows of commuter trains.
I begged you not to look at my heart.
You wanted to break it.
You didn’t know it yet.
And when you looked in the middle of my chest, my heart
was broken.
It was no longer uniform, it was split in two.
That beautiful red star of blood was pulsing.
It is for you and for all the books you haven’t read yet.
And for the bed that will see you read them as you describe
little circles with your feet under the blankets.