Poetry

This ectoplasm that at one time emanated from objects: books, paintings, sculptures, CDs, posters, musical scores, radios, galleries and libraries, bookshops, cars and boats, staircases, countries, mountains, and people.

windows opened simultaneously: visual combinations:

journalism and self-help, Sor Juana, Juan Gabriel, James Joyce, Amparo Dávila, “If you love someone …,” and Szymborska. Salvador Elizondo, Buddha, “Things you cannot miss out on,” marches and traffic. Sensationalist crime news. “A man gave a beggar something to eat, what happened next …,” the Witold Gombrowicz Congress begins, Susan Sontag, “A polar bear wanders through the streets and the Underground in London,” Review, the best books, videos, wines of the year, “We are beings of light,” #Ayotzinapa.

Now that I remember that someone used to say “I’m left-handed,” or “they are right-handed,” I feel a sense of surprise. I see way in the distance those left elbows across the school desks, those right elbows suspended at the side of the tables, and I think, also at a distance, of those days when I used to practice my writing and use of words in notebooks with a fountain pen or a pencil. Therefore:

that from the moment I started to use both hands to write, something joined up, it fitted together, and did it all connect?