Ximena Keogh Serrano
Reading Julia Kristeva’s Strangers to Ourselves,
lustrous fist punch over my skin. Purple river.
The stream of execution. A delivery of sorts.
A haunting invitation
to see the Self doubled
Poised between windows.
Spreading all veins of me.
A microscopic view
of the selves inside always splitting,
ashed over lands that could never home me.
Matters of expulsion. Forced return.
Remember the bruise. Visit citation.
I am no stranger
This self knows the specter peeking outside the frame. She,
is no stranger.
Tapestries of loss never seek navigation
They are boundless beginnings:
a symphony that moves, tiny notes,
We champion the distances
the exiled heart. Coat it with glue,
Stick it on the stranger.
Do not be fooled:
She knows herself.