Rara Avis (Ofrecerte un nombre)

para Myrna
 

Ofrecerte un nombre

Una palabra que reconozca
tu existencia milagrosa

que te ayude a reconocerte
que te permita ser
sólo ser

Una palabra
                           que no sea un sustantivo
                           que no dependa de un verbo
                           que no pueda ser adjetivad

Una pirueta del lenguaje
                                                   que caiga
                                                   destruya la ilusión de los límites
                                                   y sintetice todos los territorios

Como lo haces incansablemente
Tú
Rara Avis
Ave Prodigiosa
Vasta y múltiple
como el origen del cosmos

No te ofreceré
un caliz repleto del veneno
de la confusión que no es amor

Tampoco bebería del tuyo
si me invitaras algo similar

Desde la osada honestidad
donde confieso esta cobardía
Cuido el deseo perenne
de forjar
para tí
un nombre
 
que respete tu valentía
y te envuelva en compasión



Título tomado del libro homónimo de Daniel J. García, (Rara Avis. Una teoría queer impolítica) e inspirado por la pieza de teatro documental Trans,  con la actuación de Myrna Moguel.

The Night of the Patient Moon

Dear mother and father and old and young people of my home. Dear pets and weeds and flowers and footfalls. I write to you in a script speckled with time. I write to the language of a poet and many who chanted after her. I quote those verses which are laments, songs, praises, and warnings. The laments are about not being of your skin, your tongue, your high heaven. The songs are about television screens, newsprint din, and the men with the megaphone going around shutting people’s windows down. The praises are to those that wear spotless clothes, hidden weapons, buck-skin shoes, and plastic faces. The warnings are about daring to speak, daring to say I’m two languages not one, I’m three faces not one, and I’m a quarter bile not full. Dear people of my city, town, lane, and invisible spaces, tell me, how do I return to you? It is the night of the patient moon. But the doorkeepers are asking for proof that I lived here, the watchful voices are mocking my 
wandering toes, and the vigilantes are simply admiring their righteous claws.

Fragment of Anima Writes a Letter Home, by Nabinda Das.