Wakeful
It was midnight.
I was walking through Kentish Town.
The cold weighed heavily in my nose and on my hands.
My forehead still at war from so many confusing thoughts:
which is why the orange beret,
the Clinique make-up,
the uncertain footsteps.
I don't even remember where I was coming from.
I knew that I was going to murder my memory
'Not in Kentish Town,' I told myself.
I reached my house, entered my room, turned off the lights,
I laid down on the bed...(ever the victim).
There was a struggle, resistance, blows without hands, and a voice acting as referee;
a wretched voice, perhaps she controlled this game?
I wandered around again, whilst it grew light, in Kentish Town;
this time without a beret (my memory cooling)
and in silence.
Eran las doce de la noche.
Yo caminaba por Kentish Town.
El frío pesaba en mi nariz y en mis manos.
Mi frente aun reñía por tantos pensamientos confusos:
por eso la boina naranja,
el maquillaje clinique,
los pasos imprecisos.
Ya no recordaba de dónde venía.
Sabía que iba a asesinar a la memoria
-No en Kentish Town- me dije.
me recliné en la cama… (como siempre sería yo la víctima).
Hubo una lucha, resistencia, golpes sin manos, y una voz que hacía de árbitro;
una voz miserable, ¿acaso ella procuró este juego?
Nadie ganó la pelea.
Vagué de nuevo, mientras clareaba, por Kentish Town;
esta vez sin boina (la memoria resfriada)
y en silencio.
© Yamilka Noa - Londres 2010