Cigarrillos,
whisky y mujeres muy, muy salvajes
(de una canción)
Quizás nací de
rodillas,
nací tosiendo en
el largo invierno,
nací esperando
el beso de la misericordia,
nací con cierta
pasión por la celeridad
y, sin embargo, a
medida que las cosas progresaron,
aprendí muy
pronto la estocada
o a ser borrada
del mapa, la furia del enemigo.
De dos o tres aprendí
a no ponerme de rodillas,
a no esperar, a ocultar
mis fuegos bajo tierra
donde solo se puede murmurar sobre las muñecas,
perfectas y horribles, o entregarlas a la
muerte.
Ahora que he
escrito muchas palabras,
y que dejé
escapar tantos amores, para unos cuantos,
y que he sido por entero lo que siempre fui—
una mujer de
excesos, de celo y avidez,
creo que el
esfuerzo es inútil.
¿Acaso no me
miro en el espejo,
estos días,
y veo una rata
borracha desviando su mirada?
¿No siento un
deseo tan intenso
que preferiría
morir antes que mirarlo
a la cara?
Me arrodillo una
vez más,
en caso de que
llegue la misericordia
a último
momento.
Anne Sexton, Newton, 1928- Weston, 1974
Versión © Silvia Camerotto
imagen de Pamela Wilson©, Ode to the Menacing Gods, en Uno de los nuestros
Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women
(from a
song)
Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.
Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was—
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time
Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.
Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was—
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time
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