"The ill mother, asleep on the bidet like a shameless angel. Shaved head, torn nightgown and the little sweater smelling foul. Twisted by foetal delight or disastrous pain, she resembles me my old twin: Limping, widow, crazy enough to tie her hands to the bucket, to a bull, to the bedside table."

Credits

Edited by Tsé-Tsé, Buenos Aires.