I The night of your death God spattered my window with wet. The rain hurt as much as cold hurts in a Christmas story inside cardboard neighborhoods. The wind hit the walls, slipped through the cracks in the house, chilled the closets, made its shrieks a guarded lullaby. […]
Our favorite dish required a certain preparation. My grandmother opened the fish vertically, reading my future. She would carefully arrange its insides across the surface wound: Marks of death should not become infected. Meanwhile, she talked to me. I was still little; I had come back from school, asked about lunch, gave my thanks […]
I belong to a race of women with biodegradable hearts. When one of us dies her dead body is displayed in public parks, the children come to pry in her tin throat, to celebrate her with flies and worms, I’m so sad. She made me smile, so I didn’t like her. Exactly thirty days […]
The men in my mother’s family die before they turn forty. They get confused when they iron out their lives. Count down: they hold close their intimate memories. It’s not possible to miss strangers. Young, tall, a swoop of wind and they’re cadavers. How would you stop it? You could mourn the […]
We passed the baby over the bed, and later we passed tissue, and her Bible with its onion skin pages, its highlighted lessons and dog-eared parables she kept handy with bookmarks whose tassels hung and swayed as her hair might have done when she was very sweet and very young, and when […]
Los hombres de la familia de mi madre mueren antes de los cuarenta años. Se equivocan al encauzar su vida. Cuenta atrás: frenan el cariño, los recuerdos, no es posible echar de menos a quienes no conoces. Altos, jóvenes, un golpe de viento los convierte en cadáver. ¿Cómo lo impedirás? Podrías velar la agonía […]
Nuestro plato favorito requería cierta preparación. Mi abuela abría el pescado en vertical, leyendo mi futuro. Sobre la superficie herida distribuía su relleno, con cuidado: las marcas de la muerte no deben infectarse. Mientras, ella me hablaba. Yo aún era pequeña; había vuelto del colegio, preguntaba qué había de almorzar, relamía mis gracias y […]
I La noche de tu muerte Dios acribillaba a gargajos el cristal de mi ventana. La lluvia dolía igual que duele el frío en un cuento navideño con barrios de cartón. El viento golpeaba las paredes, se colaba por las rendijas de la casa, helaba los armarios, componía con sus silbidos una nana que velase […]
