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The death of my mother intensifies even more our pact in life: a knot of silence. To love her is to empty myself of words, sipping the angst of knowing oneself as flesh.
In a ritual, I fulfill the bitterness of not speaking. I taste the saliva of kisses engulfed by the insignificant spotlights. I taste the hardness of being petrified by the father’s mortified speech: knowing nothing beyond himself.
I swallow the dead words doing with two inches of silence – waiting for any letter.
My encounter with the dead: reviving questions without answers, backlighting the night.
Recognizing the interlines pulsing in between the pauses
in the gravestones. With this very little, I survive.