Somos en escrito The Latino Literary Online Magazine
Three/Tres Poemas/Poems
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Laberinto, Yo |
Por/by Claudia D. Hernández
Ilustrados/Illustrated por/by the author
Nothing ever hurt: fragmented memory
By the time I was five, I became numb seeing Papápass out in the cantina,
drunk and penniless; his pockets inside out, lying on the street
naked, while Guatemala’s army baptized the Chuchumatán Mountains with rifles machetes.
At home, Mamá became a see-through cup ready to explode from the deepest red of her chest. There were times she wished Rios Montt’s regime would take him away. But instead, she broke things with her wings. Empty plumes impregnated the air.
It wasusually Tía Zoila who broke up their fights.
Mamáwould gather the three of us under her arms. Her collar—
adorned with purple pearls, while Papá’s eye—bleeding with whiskey—was scarred by her tacón.
Far away, the mountains moaned
with the Ixil people’s burning trees— screeching bones.
I don’t mean to tell you how my sister Consuelo cried,
latching to Mamá’s thigh, begging her not to look for him and fight him like a mad Quetzal. Consuelo grew emotionally-thick-skin wings.
I don’t mean to tell you how my sister Sindy, at the age of nine,
became my second mother. Soon, she developed a special gaze, the one where one eye can see right through you, while the other one
lingers for imaginary horizons to perch on.
What I do mean to tell you is how I felt ecstatic running from house to house,
seeking shelter, hiding from Papá’s fluttering wrath. I distracted myself playing by the riverbank, creating dolls of mud and clay—bloodstained—
from the mouth of the Rio Negro/rio ardiente—
I pretended to be god.
I never asked why we always went back. I laughed out loud and spun around,
blurring everyone’s faces until I’d fall on the ground skinning
my fragmented memory; nothing ever hurt. Now at 34, I pick Mamá’s broken feathers, from my throat; while eighty-six-year-old Rios Montt spreads his wings in the comfort of his golden home;
unexpected overturned veredicto.
The River Never Happened To Me (i)
I used to walk half a mile from Tía Zoila's house to the river; I bathed in it pretending to know how to swim.
I was
eight, breathing, eating the constant heat of Mayuélas. The
river was my biggest alibi; its muddy path was crowded with
pumice
rocks, verdant ceiba trees, and buried mango seeds. I
came across floating mango pits—cracked opened—their
flesh
consumed to the bone. No one noticed their nakedness
floating by or how they sank to the bottom of the river; I bathed
in the
river hoping to rescue those seeds from drowning alone.
On my way back home, I’d jump from rock to rock, trickling
river
and mango seeds everywhere. By the time I’d reach Tía Zoila’s
house, I was dry, as if the river never happened to me.
The River Never Happened To Us (ii)
We walked more than a thousand miles to get to the other side of
the Rio Bravo, guided by the Coyote’s howl. We didn’t bathe in the
river.
Instead, we floated like thin paper boats, tanned by the sun.
I don’t remember caressing the surface of any pumice
rock.
I stuck my fingers between cottonwood crevices, their
trunks rooted on opposite sides of the river. We were
bound
to eat desert wind; I was ten. When we reached the other
side, we hid behind bushes; quietly, we sank slowly in the
mud.
When the Coyotes signaled, we walked, no, we ran and our knees
shed broken pieces of mud. No one drowned in the river; no one had
to be
resuscitated from the mud. Yet we continued to trickle
shards of mud, as if the river had never happened to us.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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Femenina |
Hembras que aúllan
Ríen / lloran / aúllan
No callan
Y cuando hablan
No mienten
De vez en cuando
Se muerden la
Lengua
Escupen,
No se tragan
Su propia sangre
Sus sátiras
Renacen en medio
De realidades
Con disimulo,
Expulsan el
Cinismo
Desafían,
Al estallar
Como supernovas
Ellas viven/
Nos deslumbran/
Nos inspiran
A todos.
Women Who Howl
They laugh / cry / howl
They are never silent
And when they speak
They do not lie
Now and then,
They bite their
Tongues
They expel,
They do not swallow
Their own blood
Their satires are
Reborn amidst
Realities
Cunningly,
They shed
Cynicism
They defy,
And explode
Into supernovas
They live/
They dazzle/
They inspire
All of us.
Editor's Note: All the ceramic sculptures and photographs are by the author.
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Photo by Jason Mahlin |
Claudia D. Hernández, born and raised in Guatemala, now lives in Los Angeles, California. Aphotographer, poet, translator, and a bilingual educator, she holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. Her works have appeared in various online literary journals and anthologies throughout the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, Mexico, and Spain. She is founder of the ongoing project: Today’s Revolutionary Women of Color; view at www.Todaysrevolutionarywomenofcolor.com.