Ink on paper

22cm x 16cm

​Commissioned by La Peste Magazine Mexico

​

Poetry by Beatriz Estrada

​

The last night of April went to the library to kill time.

Even if it is not my favorite section,

the title “How to live without you and not die”

caught my eye between the best sellers.

I hid behind the law dictionaries

to see if Dr. Burgoa covered me,

like the trees to those sad

and lonely benches in the Alameda Central.

Prayer to forget the loved one:

“I love and respect myself, and will have the strength

not to beg, because I deserve better.

-Repeat three times before every encounter attempt-“, I read.

Dr. Shulz (a bald Englishman, with men menopause,

probably divorced and the book’s author) says

that we should take a notebook to discover

that internal humus.

you hurt me just as my asthma, I write.

Then I think and write again:

you hurt me just as my asthma hurts my mother.

I think of a vowel, an o.

It is not in tundra but it is in scroll.

My heart. As ambiguous as lichen.

There is no support for this vertigo

nor map fot your sterile body.

But Dr. Schulz is wrong,

maybe some of us were born without

that humus he talks about.

I will buy some cigarettes,

cross the avenue.

It’s cold,

and in this April’s night

the traffic light shines more than the moon.