Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Lauren Mendinueta

LETTING MYSELF GO

Only yesterday I was forty-nine.
Today, the first morning of April, 1977,
I looked for my face in the mirror,
my face even more broken
in the cracked mirror of the bathroom.
Dear body beyond my reach,
why do you stubbornly continue to show your reflection?
I am guilty of living.
I can see you’ve fallen apart
and in the recent and trembling past
your entire weight rests upon the lightness of sleep.
In childhood I saw you walking among the carious smiles
of the harbor,
running with legs spreadeagled
as if dodging the oaks,
covering yourself with sweaty hands zigzagging the busy cities
and nursing infants who
searched in vain for other liquids, not mercy.
I saw you, body,
rest your face upon the modest grave
that now evokes your very face.
I am nearly rubble,
an indistinguishable stain
on the mirrors of asylums and supermarkets.
I know that I am alive because I feel pain;
the body is an absurd obligatory
extension of the mind.

AUTOABANDONO

AUTOABANDONO

Apenas ayer tenía cuarenta y nueve años.
Hoy, primera mañana de abril de 1977,
Busqué mi rostro en el espejo,
mi rostro aún más roto
en el espejo roto del baño.
Cuerpo mío inasequible
¡¿por qué sigues terco reflejándote?!
Soy culpable de vivir.
Puedo verte derruido
y en el pasado también fresco y tembloroso,
todo tu peso sobre la liviandad del sueño.
Te vi caminar por entre las dentaduras cariadas
del puerto en la niñez,
correr sobre piernas esparcidas
como por entre robles,
cobijarte en las manos sudorosas de ciudades trajinadas
y dar el pecho a infantes que en vano
buscaban líquidos distintos de la piedad.
Te vi, cuerpo,
descansar el rostro sobre la tumba modesta
que ahora evoca tu propio rostro.
Soy casi un escombro,
una mancha indistinguible
en los espejos de asilos y supermercados.
Sé que estoy viva porque siento dolor;
el cuerpo es una prolongación
absurda y obligada de la mente.
Close

LETTING MYSELF GO

Only yesterday I was forty-nine.
Today, the first morning of April, 1977,
I looked for my face in the mirror,
my face even more broken
in the cracked mirror of the bathroom.
Dear body beyond my reach,
why do you stubbornly continue to show your reflection?
I am guilty of living.
I can see you’ve fallen apart
and in the recent and trembling past
your entire weight rests upon the lightness of sleep.
In childhood I saw you walking among the carious smiles
of the harbor,
running with legs spreadeagled
as if dodging the oaks,
covering yourself with sweaty hands zigzagging the busy cities
and nursing infants who
searched in vain for other liquids, not mercy.
I saw you, body,
rest your face upon the modest grave
that now evokes your very face.
I am nearly rubble,
an indistinguishable stain
on the mirrors of asylums and supermarkets.
I know that I am alive because I feel pain;
the body is an absurd obligatory
extension of the mind.

LETTING MYSELF GO

Only yesterday I was forty-nine.
Today, the first morning of April, 1977,
I looked for my face in the mirror,
my face even more broken
in the cracked mirror of the bathroom.
Dear body beyond my reach,
why do you stubbornly continue to show your reflection?
I am guilty of living.
I can see you’ve fallen apart
and in the recent and trembling past
your entire weight rests upon the lightness of sleep.
In childhood I saw you walking among the carious smiles
of the harbor,
running with legs spreadeagled
as if dodging the oaks,
covering yourself with sweaty hands zigzagging the busy cities
and nursing infants who
searched in vain for other liquids, not mercy.
I saw you, body,
rest your face upon the modest grave
that now evokes your very face.
I am nearly rubble,
an indistinguishable stain
on the mirrors of asylums and supermarkets.
I know that I am alive because I feel pain;
the body is an absurd obligatory
extension of the mind.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère