L\u2019autre soir, ce corps vieilli r\u00eavait \u00e0 la mort. Il s\u2019enroulait dans les draps, tournait sur lui-m\u00eame et sa t\u00eate avait peur, tr\u00e8s peur; elle imaginait le pire.<\/p>\n
Tel un animal bless\u00e9, ce corps respirait \u00e0 petites goul\u00e9es. Tout meurt \u00e0 la longue, essayait-il de se dire. Trop t\u00f4t, trop tard, il n\u2019arrivait pas \u00e0 prier. \u00c9tait-ce la nuit qui lui semblait si longue? \u00c9tait-ce la mort qui frappait si fort? Le cahoteux va-et-vient de son c\u0153ur l\u2019apeurait.<\/p>\n
Ce corps magan\u00e9 allait vivre jusqu\u2019\u00e0 cent ans, disait-il jadis \u00e0 qui voulait l\u2019entendre. Et voil\u00e0 qu\u2019entre les draps, ce soir-l\u00e0, la mort r\u00f4dait. Tel un condor \u00e0 cou blanc, un vautour imaginaire surveillait sa proie.<\/p>\n
Si je savais \u00e9crire comme nagent les dauphins, j\u2019aurais ce matin une v\u00e9ritable histoire \u00e0 vous pr\u00e9senter. Et pourtant l\u2019heure arrive qu\u2019il faille affranchir mes doigts, sauter la cl\u00f4ture de la logique, d\u00e9lier les entourloupettes du quotidien et plonger t\u00eate premi\u00e8re dans un oc\u00e9an de strophes nouvelles.<\/p>\n
Il y a ce corps vieilli, cette chair ternie
\nCes jambes croulantes, ces bras qui me hantent
\nCe cou fendill\u00e9, ces veines bomb\u00e9es
\nCe front fl\u00e9tri, cette peau d\u00e9catie
\nCes yeux fatigu\u00e9s, ces iris d\u00e9lav\u00e9s
\nCes joues aplaties, ces sourires ti\u00e9dis
\nCe ventre malmen\u00e9, stigmates \u00e9rod\u00e9s
\nCes mamelles frip\u00e9es, ces t\u00e9tines fan\u00e9es
\nCes mains chamarr\u00e9es, ces veinures bleut\u00e9es
\nCes doigts recourb\u00e9s, l\u2019un sur l\u2019autre grimp\u00e9s
\nCes orteils caboss\u00e9s, grands pieds fatigu\u00e9s
\nCette taille ventrue, apparence foutue
\nCe dos maladroit transporte sa croix<\/p>\n
L\u2019\u00e2ge avance comme un loup et me d\u00e9vore
\nJe cours, je cours et je crie \u00ab\u2009au secours\u2009\u00bb
\nQuoiqu\u2019il arrive, je suis \u00e0 la d\u00e9rive
\nDans la tani\u00e8re du temps, je n\u2019entends que le vent
\nSolitude in\u00e9vitable, toute seule \u00e0 la table
\nDo, r\u00e9, mi, fa, sol, la, si; je m\u2019engourdis
\nJe sens la mort m\u00fbrir en moi, tel un fruit qui s\u2019agrippe, un soleil qui persiste
\nMes sens se taisent, mon c\u0153ur s\u2019apaise
\nUn parfum de framboises s\u2019attarde dans mon cou
\nJe peine et je pleure, elle arrive mon heure
\nM\u2019endormir comme Oph\u00e9lie, eau de rose plein mon lit
\nDerni\u00e8res volont\u00e9s, premi\u00e8res pellet\u00e9es
\nJe ne verrai plus le printemps ni l\u2019automne rosi, ni l\u2019hiver endormi<\/p>\n
Lentement ma m\u00e9moire s\u2019ab\u00eatit
\nJ\u2019oublie mon nom, mon \u00e2ge et la couleur de ce qu\u2019\u00e9tait ma vie
\nJe suis forte, je suis morte
\nIl y a ce petit bruit de fourmi qui s\u2019arr\u00eate \u00e0 la fin<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
L\u2019autre soir, ce corps vieilli r\u00eavait \u00e0 la mort. Il s\u2019enroulait dans […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":28215,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-28190","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"The other night, this aging body dreamt of death. It was wrapping itself in the bedsheets, twisting and turning. Its mind was terrified. It imagined the worst.\r\n\r\nLike a wounded animal, this aging body took its breaths in quick gasps. Everything eventually comes to an end, it thought to himself. Too soon, too late; the body couldn\u2019t bring itself to pray. Did the night seem longer than usual? Was that death knocking loudly at the door? The uneven somersaults and jolts of its old heart frightened the aging body.\r\n\r\nThe aging soul used to tell anyone who would listen that its battered body would live to be a hundred. And that night, death hovered above. Like a white-necked condor, an imaginary vulture watching its prey.\r\n\r\nIf I knew how to write as well as dolphins swim, I would have a real story to share with you this morning. But the time has come to let my fingers type freely, to let my imagination jump the fence of logic, undo the shenanigans of everyday life and dive head first into an ocean of new verses.\r\n\r\nThis aged body, this tarnished flesh\r\nThese crumbling legs, these arms that haunt me\r\nThis cracked neck, these bulging veins\r\nThis withered forehead, this decaying skin\r\nThese tired eyes, these faded irises\r\nThese deflated cheeks, these lukewarm smiles\r\nThis mistreated belly, these dull scars\r\nThese crumpled breasts, their faded nipples\r\nThese marbled hands, these bluish veins\r\nThese gnarly fingers, one climbing atop the other\r\nThese dented toes, big tired feet\r\nThis paunchy waist, ruined appearance\r\nThis clumsy back that carries its cross\r\n\r\nAge sneaks up on me and devours me like a wolf\r\nI run and run, I cry out for help\r\nWhatever happens, I\u2019m adrift\r\nIn the den of time, all I hear is the wind\r\nInevitable loneliness, alone at the table\r\nDo, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, I am numb\r\nI feel death ripening inside me, like a clinging fruit, a persistent sun\r\nMy senses fall silent, my heart finally settles\r\nA scent of raspberries lingering on my neck\r\nI grieve, I cry; my time has come\r\nFalling asleep like Ophelia, rosewater in my bed\r\nLast wishes, first shovelfuls of earth\r\nI\u2019ll see no more spring, no more bright autumn, no more sleepy winter\r\n\r\nSlowly my memory dims\r\nI forget my name, my age and the colours of my life\r\nI\u2019m strong, I\u2019m dead\r\nThere\u2019s that little ant sound that stops at the end\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n