Orchestral Longings


Ximena Keogh Serrano

Reading Julia Kristeva’s Strangers to Ourselves,
her words
             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.
                       False mirror
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.

Wind oscillations
                                  Wind floods

Tapestries of loss never seek navigation
They are boundless beginnings:
a symphony that moves, tiny notes,


We champion the distances
We re-cover,
the exiled heart. Coat it with glue,
Stick it on the stranger.
Do not be fooled:
She knows herself.


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