Era uma vez uma mulher que, após o fim, não se tornou nada, mas sim um resto. Um resto que respira. Ela morreu, é verdade, mas esqueceu-se de parar de existir. O amor, ao partir, não levou apenas a mala; levou a moldura do mundo, deixando-a entregue à nudez de uma existência sem paredes. Sobrou-lhe, então, a convivência,  essa rotina viscosa, com os próprios abandonos. Depois do amor, ela desaprendeu a pertencer. Não havia mais o porto do mar nem o chão da terra. O céu? O céu era apenas um teto que pesava, uma superfície azul onde a dor … Continue reading O que restou…

They will approach you with their measuring tapes and their small, tidy expectations. They will say your heart is a room that cannot be lived in, that it is too messy, a cacophony of too loud or a silence too quiet. They will weigh it and find it too big for their narrow shelves, or too small for their hunger, or simply, always, too much. But you? You will look at them with the eyes of someone who has seen the sun and survived it. You were not built for the economy of “enough.” You were raised to exhale, to … Continue reading The Anatomy of an Exhalation

It is a state of being… or perhaps a lack of it. I look at the wall and the wall looks back, and suddenly I am no longer myself; I am the wall, the lime, the microscopic crack. Everything is so large that it hurts to be small. I feel with a violence that is almost silent. People walk past me with their dry, organized hearts, while I am a liquid overflowing. Is it a sickness? To see a speck of dust dancing in a sunbeam and feel the entire weight of the universe’s birth? It is a fatigue that … Continue reading The Insufferable Radiance

There are many poems which touch us through the years. Poetry has the ability to say what we feel. It’s rhythm sometimes comforts us as a child can be comforted in a rocking chair. It lays bare the soul and pretense and pride are burned away by the fires of yesterday. It comforts us when we feel sadness and despair. It inspires us when hope is almost lost.The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world diesWith the dying sun.The mind has a thousand eyesAnd the heart but one;Yet the light of a … Continue reading The Touch of Poetry

J’ai vu tant de mers, tant de rivages, tant de ciel et de paysages. Chaque horizon s’est offert à moi, dévoilant des secrets infinis et des beautés insoupçonnées. J’ai vu tant d’escales et tant de ports, où chaque arrêt était une nouvelle promesse, une nouvelle aventure à embrasser. J’ai pu me chauffer au creux des îles, où le soleil caressait ma peau et où la brise marine chantait des mélodies douces. Je me suis caché au fond des villes, trouvant refuge dans les rues animées et les coins tranquilles, là où la vie pulsait avec une vigueur inégalée. J’ai marché … Continue reading Tant de Mers

The sacred is not confined to hallowed halls or holy texts; it is the quietude in a hammock’s sway on a lazy Sunday, the anticipation in an airport’s embrace. It is the stillness between life’s cacophony, a late-night tea, a duvet’s cozy retreat. Sacredness is the aroma of a meal, the earth’s perfume after rain, the silence of a fulfilled desire. It is the window that frames the dying day, the kiss that speaks without words, the surrender of entwined souls. In a room of cherished memories, the sacred finds its home, a gentle reprieve from the mundane. It coexists … Continue reading Sacred

The kitchen is silent, except for the bread. It sits there, a dense, unformed mystery. How many slices in a bread? I hold the knife and feel the vertigo of choice. If I cut it thin, I am a miser of moments, stretching the wheat into a transparent ghost of itself. If I cut it thick, I am a glutton for the present. The bread doesn’t care. It only waits for the edge of my will. It depends, you see. It always depends on the hand that holds the steel. I think of the old screen door. It is a … Continue reading The Weight of the Slices

Sou tomada pelo ir e vir das coisas; das pessoas, de cada sopro de vida que entra e sai sem pedir licença. É um movimento de maré: o que sobe e o que desce, o empurrão e o recuo, esse ritmo que não é meu, mas que me habita. Lá fora, os carros correm com uma urgência cega, um fluxo contínuo que não para para ser olhado. E os “olás”, e os “adeuses”… tudo o que acontece nesse intervalo, nesse entre-lugar que fica espremido entre o início e o fim. Cada pedaço de tempo é marcado com uma precisão cruel, … Continue reading O Entre-Lugar

I have chimeras in my eyesBright with thirty candlesFrom sex jumps seedsExploding locomotivesI have hoarse gutsIn a rosary of my faithMy muscles are so fragilTo this network of intriguesMy Afro-latino soul criesImplodes, rips, squeezesAnd in my sleeping fingers wanderThe moon in my dreams winsSo what?👣🇧🇷 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Quimeras

The word “grief” is too small. It is a word for a broken glass or a lost dog. It is not a word for the way it was when I was seventeen. At seventeen, the world was very old and I was very tired of it. I carried a thing inside me that was not meant to be carried. It was a dark weight, and then it broke. It was a bad business. There was the blood and the muscle and the heart failing in the chest, the way a horse fails when its legs are gone. The dreams died … Continue reading The Geography of the Break