Women come galloping with their nests, launched in a silent stampede. The viscous and hot torrent brushes against us and lights us in black and white. And we howl, we demand. Tongues standing on end. Tongues of fire, extinguishing in the wind. Tongues without hands. Tongues that do not caress, do not console, and do not heal. Tongues that mutate, freeze, that do not run with time.

 

Girls can’t do it alone. Where are the hands? Those who punish, those who remedy. Hands that clap and that beat. Hands that sign. Those of past girls. Women’s hands.