Anna que estaba loca
Anna que estaba loca,
tengo un cuchillo bajo mi axila.
Cuando me paro en puntas de pie zapateo mensajes
¿Soy algún tipo de infección?
¿Te hice enloquecer?
¿Hice que los sonidos se enrarecieran?
¿Te dije que salieras por la ventana?
Perdona. Perdona.
Di que no lo hice.
Di que no.
Dilo.
Di Mary —dile palabras a tu almohada.
Lleva a la
largilucha de doce años
hasta tu hundido regazo.
Susurra
como una marimoña.
Devórame.
Devórame como un pastel de crema.
Tómame.
Tómame.
Toma.
Dame un informe sobre el estado de mi alma.
Dame una declaración completa de mis actos.
Entrégame una arisema y déjame escuchar.
Ponme en los estribos y trae un grupo de
inspección.
Enumera mis pecados en la lista del almacén y
déjame comprar.
¿Te hice enloquecer?
¿Subí tu audífono y dejé que se metiera una sirena?
¿Le abrí la puerta a un psiquiatra de bigotes
que te arrastró como una carretilla de oro?
¿Te hice enloquecer?
Desde la tumba ¡escríbeme Anna!
No eres más que cenizas y sin embargo
toma la lapicera Parker que te di.
Escríbeme.
Escribe.
Anne
Sexton, Newton, 1928- Weston,
1974
Versión
©Silvia Camerotto,
imagen de Anne Arden McDonald, Untitled Self Portrait #58, Austria, 1994, en Anne Arden McDonald
Anna Who Was Mad
Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.
Speak Mary —words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.
Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.
Speak Mary —words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.
Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.
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