Buenos Aires,
The Letters on the Shelf
Today, I rescue those letters from their exile, read each line tenderly, and recognize myself, it was me. It was always me.
Buenos Aires,
Today, I rescue those letters from their exile, read each line tenderly, and recognize myself, it was me. It was always me.
I walked hand in hand with you,
between walls that had watched the centuries pass and narrow streets the night dressed in mystery.
I whispered in your ear, barely a thread of a voice,
so you would close your eyes.
Belén is and always will be a stone cottage in the soul of the Córdoba hills.
Sturdy walls, like that embrace that held me as a girl, when I did not yet know
Let go of the spear that no longer points, the shield that weighs more than the blow, the rusted armor of old fears. Let it fall, as a ripe leaf falls without lament or drama.
It simply falls.
I don’t know if you ever loved me or if I was merely a mirror in which you gazed at your own light, the way my eyes made you infinite.
Perhaps you didn’t love me, but the man reflected in my eyes when I loved you.
We walked together when our shoes were still too big for us and life was immense on us.
We were only little girls, our hearts full of questions and the world still new and untried.
They arrive.
They draw near like curious moons,
They have loved me in pieces, like someone gathering what shines and leaving the shadow on the other side of the door. They have loved me for my laughter,
but not for the silence that sustains it;
I do not need to understand everything, and so I turn myself into poetry. I turn myself into poetry so that mystery will not hurt so much, so that chaos will have rhythm, I open myself to the word until words become a home in the center of my chest.
Read poem: I Turned Myself into PoetryThere are bodies that bring forth life,
but hearts that do not learn to hold.
Love answered me: I am neither young nor old. I do not go by clocks, nor do I expire with the seasons.
Read poem: I asked love: How old are you?I am white. And I am black too. I am the light that reveals
and the shadow that does not kneel.
There is no destination more sacred
than being present in this breathing moment.
I want to set myself on fire with you, for your flame to touch my flame.
Read poem: Setting Myself on Fire with YouI remember you…
from when we had no bodies, from when we were only flight, stardust
Victoria Inaudi is an artist of matter and the invisible. A nomad across geographies and inner worlds, she carries the memory of two lands in her roots and, in her soul, the restlessness of someone who has never stopped searching.
More about VictoriaReturning to yourself is also a way to be reborn.