Carolina Corvillo

About the poet:

Madrid. 1988. Author of the book of stories «Hambre de Pájaro», of the novel «Yo desobedezco o cuento de Ámsterdam», the collection of humorous fantasy stories «Unauthorized Songs of the Kingdom of Nim» and co-author with Ricard Reguant of the plays «Collectors» and «Reservoir Cats». Winner of the Ediciones Oblicuas 2019 narrative award with the novel «La Secta del Cuerpo», forthcoming. Coordinator of the anthology «Delirios de Cuarentena» and co-author of the anthology «Latidos del Mar».

Screenwriter for the short films «Inside», directed by Facundo Tosso, premiered at the Film Academy of Spain, and the comedy «Dame un Verso».

Screenwriter of the comic «Virgo», with Colt García as the cartoonist and Nines Amaro as the inker.

Co-creator, singer, lyricist, and vocalist in the music bands Blacksleeves and Sybiliam.

Eventual contributor to the cultural podcast El Sótano de Radio Belgrado.

The search for identity and freedom, love, madness, guilt, and the conquest of the strange are among her recurring topics when she writes. One of her favorite genres is psychological drama, leaving space for comedy and always betting on a direct style in which the crude, the erotic, and references to mythologies and legends have a place.


En la noche más oscura
Busco tus manos en mi cuerpo
y me sorprendo acariciando partes
a las que solo tus labios pusieron nombre.

Tu presencia se enreda en todas letras que leo
y la distancia que nos separa se convierte
en una telaraña demasiado frágil,
pero imposible de destejer.

Dicen que la cuarentena nos ha enseñado
a afilarnos las uñas en casa,
a entender qué necesitamos,
a desentrañar el valor de la espera,
a desempolvar los sótanos
y comprobar la dimensión secreta de los cuerpos.

A veces, en este placer masoquista de anhelarte,
mis dedos se topan con tu recuerdo
y me elevan a un éxtasis que solo conoció
una mujer llamada Teresa,
quien comprendió muy pronto
que lo sagrado solo se alcanza
a través de la carne.
Carne es lo único que me queda para evocarte,
caricias que se transforman en oraciones
que llenan de placer un cuerpo compuesto
de piernas, pecho, boca, manos, lengua,
como pilares de un templo
que rinde culto pagano a una sola imagen,
a un solo momento en el que la nada
se convierte en ti,
en ese todo que después de desbordarme
vuelve a dejarme llena de tu ausencia.

Y en esa noche oscura del alma
me despierto temblando,
y lo único que puedo decirte
es que te echo de menos.


In the darkest night
I look for your hands on my body
And I surprise myself caressing parts
to which only your lips gave a name.

Your presence is impregnated in all the letters that I read
and the distance that separates us becomes
a spider web too fragile
but impossible to untangle.

They say the quarantine has taught us
to sharpen our nails at home,
to understand what we need,
to unravel the value of waiting,
to dust the basement
and realize the secret dimension of the bodies.

Sometimes in this masochistic pleasure of yearning for you,
my fingers run into your memory
and they elevate me to an ecstasy only known
by a poetess named Teresa,
who understood very soon
that the sacred is only reached
through the flesh.
Flesh is the only thing I have left to evoke you,
caresses that turn into prayers,
which fill with pleasure a body made up of
legs, chest, mouth, hands, tongue,
like pillars of a temple
that pays pagan worship to a single image,
to a single moment in which the nothingness
becomes you,
in that everything that after overflowing me
leaves me full of your absence again.

And in that dark night of the soul
I wake up shaking
and the only thing that I can tell you is that
I miss you.

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