Infidelities
2012; Duke University Press; Volume: 16; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1215/07990537-1665587
ISSN0799-0537
Autores Tópico(s)Reproductive Health and Technologies
ResumoI had to exist somewherewith more than one season.I had to move awayfrom the fire to crave it.I had to taste the saltmixed in a glass of waterin the silence of winter,cold spoon against colder glass.How else could I knowwhat is imitation, what is reality?In this city,subtract all the sand grainsI've swallowed,the maps of moles burnedon my back.When I return,my home will knowmy infidelity:winter will have changed me.At the most inappropriate timesI will begin to ask myself:Where are the leaves changing?During a rare city downpourI will turn to you and ask,Remember that longwet season after so manydry years?You were with me then.The mango treesgrew down, heavywith the heaviest fruitI had ever seen.And the royal poincianas, all defeated,the red petals extinguishedby the violent fingers of rain.You didn't know aboutthe poincianas, their triumphduring the long dry spell—you had never seen a treeon fire. I tried to explain:Sometimes we have to chose.By that I mean: I am a woman.I have set many fires before youAnd since then I have beenputting them out.Nothing can teach me morethan the earth has taught me.Here again, the trees dyingfrom the top down,while others preferan all-over suffering.Watching, I am as helplessas the tree who gives upits last leaf.I've never seen suchpublic announcements,Save for the womenin clapboard houses whoallow the laundryon the lineto soak in the rain andremain for hours afterward;Save for a mother once telling me,Some women don't marry men.Some of them marry places.I am rethinking this today:the stove that doesn't light,the live-in mouse, thelife defined by you andfour seasons forever.There is no room in my bodyfor orange leaves, for snow;there is too much fireand salt and I'm notgiving them up for you yet.You will have to buildour house out of ice.You will have to forgive mewhen I destroy it.No quick or dramaticdisplays. No flames, I promise.Just a slow melt.You won't even realize ituntil it is too late.You will wake up one day,and you will understand.My infidelitieswill have changed you.Displacement becomes apparent,tides of anger rollingin and out of our bodies.I throw a suitcaseout of the front door—we challenge the silenceof absence, the spacethat asks, inevitable:Who are you now if notdefined by another?I knowthat in the brainlove is not definedby the absence of its other.They share the same space.The tide of lightleaving just beyondyour windowsillbrings me home.This does not meanI love you.This means I nowhave the languageto hate youin the act of returning.I can always tellwho is cominghomeI can alwaystell us apartin airport linesit is best if we staysilent andlisten it is bestwe not let ourselvesbe knownThose tiedto an island don'tknow how to see it theright wayA bright flashy poster wayA scatteredgeometric logo wayAn endlesssandy beach wayWhodid the girl think she wassayingshe loved this place aftera five day four night hotel visit sayingBahamasas if it were a lover and Ia wife in plain sightas ifit were their little pleasure secret andshe could bed with itcould travel with it could use its name in conversations abouttrue loveSaying love as ifshe handled it with herbare handsas if she were versed inthe many shapesof itthe many weightsof it but she could not then knowhow to love one thingforevershe could not knowanything butthe smooth globeof itthe easiness in the mouthof it what did she give upwhat season has taken her placeor taken residencein her bodyHow smoothher words arehow sharp minehow much they cutmy mouthget stuckin my teethhow much grief comeswith this love butI would not want itany other way believe meI have never loved this citylike thisI do not fill my mouthwith such pearlsBelieve meit is hard to wife a placethat refuses your skinrefuses to recognize youafter you've seen anothertaken the city for a loverfor example and realized its falsitiesthe pearls tarnishingonebyone until I had to makea reflection thereon my own andit was a patternclear withlongingDon't ask meto stay for the cityAsk me to stayfor you And now the island has becomemy lover to youNowmy mother presses her mouthto the phone Her words sayHow are youbut her voice saysCome homeNow youpress your mouth to the phoneYour words sayHow have you been but your voice saysCome backIt can't love you like I love you Now I press my mouthto the phone and I sayFineand the islandit exhalesand breaksthese salty sighs onmy teethIf Nassau had a spring it would be now.The poor-man's-orchid is in bloom,and the bougainvillea begintheir thorny ascent up white trellises.It is too early for the Poinciana—its foot-long pods rattle againstbare branches. These are calledwoman's tongues.As my mother loads boxesinto her car, I watch a coffin slippedinto a hearse full of flowers.The dead watch over my warehouse, she says.We believe such things here.A suited man admires the printed poppiesof my dress from afar. I sense his smile.A stranger's smile or greetinginstills dread, a leftover cautionof the city. I smile back, self-conscious now.I try not to miss thingslike a joneser standing atmy car window, likethe potcakes wasting away beneathparked trucks, likethe women in supermarkets withlast night's curlers still tangled in their hair.The city's blindness drops away,the grief I have pulledinto myself dropsaway and the world I once knew appears.On the road we pass three funerals.I know not from gatheringsof overwhelming black, but from color—grief takes many shades,we believe such things here.Participants wait for the hearseunder a bare silk cotton tree—the tree of spirits.An Easter breeze lifts a woman's magenta hatfrom her bowed head. I hear the clickof women's tongues—thosewho have married the island, this earth: Youwill know it as I know it.A dilapidated greenhouse liesin the vision of my window.Inside, bushes of white hibiscuscome forward each day. The morningunfurls them, spilling cream,white hands opening to whiter palms,to blood-red centers. Thesesmall fires alight, burn brilliantwhite holes through my retina, throughthe day, spots that do not out.The evening does not bringa closing. No, we will knowwhat we have lost. Each corolla dropsto the evening ground. What's donewill not be undone. You wantedto know: Thatis how each day passes here.Either I'm not learningthis language fast enough,or you've rememberedhow to turn away.Last night, your voicecame through scatteredon my screen. The lostletters stolen by distancehave gathered between us.We can't speak nowas a rule, but we haven't reallybeen speaking for some time.For some time, I have felt youwash out to sea withoutthe anchor of my voice.How does it feel to bewithout an anchor? Thatis how I feel every day.I never failto notice theheat firstthesudden wetness on the faceas if waking from a tiresomedreamweeping with no reason whyMy soulknows its sudden lightnessoccurs bothwhentaking inthe endless shorelinewaves breaking on the distantcoral reefandalso when witnessingthe eveningcity skyline froma yellow cab Soonyou will know this infidelityand wewill share asilence Soon I will never visithome onmy ownYouwill be there toremind methe coral reefinthe distance isThe Devil's Backbone the namean imitation ofreality Afterall itdoes not feel remorsefor the ships ithas ravagedDoes it?Thena sudden wearinesswill comeas if wakingfrom a tiresome dream I willdrop your hand andimagine ships bloated and sunkencradled inthe tongue ofthe ocean Deeper still the crooning of whales brokenhoming devices theirbodies on shorewithout warningA sudden wetness willbegin to gather onmy face atnight I willsleep with mycurled back cradled inyour chest and tryto locatethe very pattern of beating life buriedwithin youA lighthouseA lighthouse filled withspring
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