“Inmigrante” & “Problemas de lenguaje”por Adriana Gordillo Inmigrante Este vacío en el pecho No sabe a quién llenar. Crece poquito a poco, se va hinchando hasta dar fruto a un llanto suave ahogado con gemiditos grises y pálpitos acompasados que se ocultan en cada esquina de este hogar lejos del hogar al otro lado del mar Problemas de lenguaje Un muro de silencio se erige entre nosotros cada vez que tu miedo y mi temor se encuentran. Dicen por ahí que es un problema de lenguaje. Que tu inglés y mi español no se entienden. Que tu mundo y el mío se desconocen. No les creas. Nuestro problema es la certeza de nuestros mundos Y tu solución es ignorarnos Adriana Gordillo es colombiana de nacimiento y vive actualmente en Saint Paul, Minnesota. Trabaja como profesora de español, literatura y cultura latinoamericana en Minnesota State University, Mankato. Ha publicado poemas en las revistas Alborismos y Letras Femeninas. Ha recibido premios de poesía como el premio Victoria Urbano (2011) otorgado por la Asociación Internacional de Literatura y Cultura Femenina Hispánica (AILCFH) y Voces nuevas de la Editorial Torremozas en 2014. Adriana es también una entusiasta de las artes visuales y algunas de sus fotografías han sido exhibidas en eventos artísticos en Minnesota.
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“...the city.s killing me...” by Sylvia Eugenia Listen to Sylvia perform "...the city.s killing me..." the mother in your memory movie reminds me. my own mother in real life. palpably uncomfortable. polite. Puetoricenio en tu vida. instead pero…skin tone…voice tone…thats them (thats us) same but different I want to hear your friend speak in Spanish. Will you tell him? …the street makes us a threesome…I'm Poly for the art scene. When it was once then for a life time, they remember. I see the halo glow of a martyr to a mind. Your brain shares that similar smile to mine and no one knows what resides inside. Between us. Asimilar. dissimilar. unsimilar. to the outside. Someone tugged you out under this sun and brought that bloodline out with it. Pushed out another one constantly cradling their own demons. Now stuck with the only them, the only I. I dreamt I had your swagger. Alone in a city park at night imagining the world, I'd be terrified. I can't run. The fear comes up fast. Predicted from in between my legs. My night sky is a retired ceiling fan casting shadows like a flower with only half its petals remaining. This is how I learned to bring a deadish body down the stairs. Slipping to the trip, my shins would be scraped shreds. Lead legs. Head over heels my arrogance of the assumed ease brings me to the slip and slide plastic of a gurney ride I'm over the concrete edge. gums dangling meat threads ...curbstomp of consequence Sputtering up snake eyes in teeth. rolling against the roof I've seen parts of this movie, watched gravity pull her to concrete like a desperate, disheveled…lover? beloved? hard-up darling? Flat down hard fuck. Only they share that collision despite those who watch and think they feel the crash. Bone to brick, rail against cheek. A mouth first tastes copper-lemon from the side. An unfinished european kiss Sylvia Eugenia combines elements of fiction and memoir into a prose poetry. Her poems have no structure except, the pauses in her breath and metronome of her heartbeat. She graduated from Mills College, Oakland, California, with a BA in English, with an emphasis in Creative Writing. She has presented her work at many small readings in Southern California and the San Francisco Bay Area. In 2013, she performed at Beast Crawl in Oakland and Lit. Crawl in San Francisco. She lives in Santa Cruz, Cali. Rinconcito is a special little corner in Somos en escrito for short writings: a single poem, a short story, a memoir, flash fiction, and the like. “On The Car Ride Home” |
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