I Fly to the Open Cage

by Jerónimo Hagerman

I take a seat on the lines of space. I am the curve and the dot, their navels, their skin. The segments outline me, they complete me. The circle, as perfect as an eye, as a bubble, becomes a thought. I enter the nave, that iron thorax. I am a flight map. I am the space that hangs from a straight line, hidden at an angle through which the sun emerges in the midst of the playground in the park, my hands filled with dirt. Am I a planet? I orbit between clouds and cells, expanding pentagons and warbling rhombuses. I remain seated, still, so I can think. I am at rest. What is stillness? Possibility.

To remain is to grow, to hope something will happen, to stay behind so that something can take place. Waiting invents a possible bird, a winged movement that imagines you. I am space, earth filled with voices, the likely visit of a feathered polyhedron grazing your thoughts. I am nature. I feel myself in disappearance, I am a bubble in the nave, swaying in the light.

And I am as open as a cage in a dream. When I take my leave, the space appears, and I am a circle pending on a timeline, a transparent feeling. The open cage is a contradiction that captures me: open/closed. I think of the body, that box of mirrors, open like a cage of flesh. Everything becomes form. I am a small planet that speaks of you, a mountain of shadows over a line of ants. I am a nest of geometric figures that calculate and measure flowers of thought. There are imaginary borders we use to order the world. I feel. A bird is this cage of air, hanging in my chest. Finally, I disappear and I am the curve and the dot, the straight line that waits for the soul of the cosmos to tell me about you, about me, about you, about me, about you.