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B order S enses
L iterary & A rts J ournal
V olume 21
F all 2015
BORDERSENSES ©2015
BorderSenses is a literary and arts journal published annually
by BorderSenses,
a non-profit 501 (c)(3) literary organization.
Donations and gifts to BorderSenses are tax-deductible to the
extent allowed by law.
SUBMISSIONS
We welcome submissions of original fiction, nonfiction,
poetry, translations, book reviews and visual art.
Submissions are accepted in English and/or Spanish.
BorderSenses only accepts web-based submissions. Please
visit us at bordersenses.com for complete guidelines.
EMAIL: [email protected]
ADDRESS: P.O. Box 1348, El Paso, TX 79948
BORDERSENSES
EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Yasmin Ramirez
PUBLISHER
Amit Ghosh
MANAGING EDITOR
Lacy Arnett
SPANISH EDITOR
Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny
POETRY EDITORS
Robin Scofield
Maria Miranda Maloney
COVER ART
Soul of a Mannequin
by Ernest Williamson III
POETRY CONTEST JUDGE
Luis Alberto Urrea
DESIGN
Paul Haist
Editor’s Note
Years ago, I visited the Sonora Desert Museum in Tucson.
Peering through the glass case of a rattlesnake, I noticed
that her face looked a little wonky—maybe some kind of
snake-battle scar? Upon closer inspection, I saw that she
was beginning to shed her skin. I stood rooted, watching
her rub up against items in her case, not unlike a kitten on
a pant leg—yawning wide to get the skin off her head and
then dragging the rest off through the rocks. I was fascinated
and stayed to watch for the 15 minutes it took to slink
off the skin from tip to tail. That providential window of
transformation for which I happened to be present.
It reminded me of a passage I read in Joseph Campbell’s
The Hero with a Thousand Faces. He talks about how all of
history and myth—the collective unconscious—tutors us in
the essentialness of our own death and rebirth cycles:
“We have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes
of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly
known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path.
And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall
find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall
slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we
shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had
thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world.”
If you’re wondering what to do next with your life, now you
know: Read Joseph Campbell. After you read this issue, of
course.
BorderSenses has a long tradition of examining crossover—
the lines between two very different spaces. This concept
needn’t always be geological. This issue contains essays,
stories and poetry in both Spanish and English that explore
the passage between health and sickness, youth and aging,
faith and disillusionment. The selected art (visual and
written) in Volume 21 illuminates the fact that if we are
living, if we are awake and paying any kind of attention at
all, then we will find ourselves forever transforming, passing
between borders, shedding—sometimes beautifully, more
often painfully—our former selves.
Lacy Arnett
Contents
Poetry Contest Winners
First Place: Our Lady of San Juan del Valle by Natalia Trevino.........23
Second Place: Penance by Leslie Marie Aguilar....................................7
Third Place: Deity by Kate Kingston...................................................59
Fiction
English
Hearts of Palm by Elizabeth Hoover ....................................................2
The Line of Vision by Lily Iona MacKenzie ........................................9
Seeking Oracles by Donna Snyder .....................................................27
Rumour of a Seventh Head by Marc Labriola ...................................60
Life Like Weeds by Jason Lucero ....................................................106
Spanish
Montana por Itzel Guevara .................................................................18
Canto fúnebre por Imanol Caneyada ..................................................30
Café Kamikaze por Iván Farias .........................................................70
Héroes entre nosotros por Alfonso López Corral ...............................93
Corona juarense por Diana Esparza Lara ........................................125
Nonfiction
English
Pineapple Piñata by James Robinson .................................................42
TESTIMONIO #17 by Philip Garrison .............................................82
Caminar: to Walk by Joshua Moreno .................................................86
Indulgence by Candace Jaffe ............................................................114
The Body is a Promise by Rashaan Alexis Meneses.........................131
Spanish
Memorias en chun kuns por Rosa Espinoza .......................................47
Poetry
English
Seam by Leah Gómez .........................................................................28
Na’nizhoozhi by Dwayne Martine .....................................................29
Pilgrimage by Carla Hagen ...............................................................38
Walking into the Mouth by Carmela Lanza .....................................109
After a Tooth Extraction, Zen by Jonathan Travelstead ....................81
The Ice Harvester by Diana Anhalt ..................................................105
The Tipping Point by Johanna DeMay .............................................104
Reassurance from a Friend After an IVF Failure
by Andrea Beltran...........................................................................56
Sonora Desert Fragment by Jeffrey Alfier ..........................................80
The Reason We Don’t Come Over For Your Daughter’s Birthday
by Lupe Méndez ..............................................................................6
Blind Woman by Agustín Cadena, translated by C.M. Mayo ............57
The Rental by Jamie Ross ................................................................122
Learning the World by Marian Haddad .............................................66
Border Folk by David Bowles ............................................................91
Penance by Leslie Marie Aguilar .........................................................7
Curvas Peligrosas by Susan Florence .................................................58
Deity by Kate Kingston ..................................................................... 59
Obsolete by Nancy Lechuga .............................................................111
It’s Still Out There by P.W. Covington ..............................................128
Our Lady of San Juan del Valle, San Juan de los Lagos,
Depending Which Side of the Border You Believe In
by Natalia Trevino .........................................................................23
Blood Games by Suzana Huerta ........................................................16
Lineage by Jed Myers .........................................................................13
Gloria of Palenque by Maria Elena B. Mahler ...................................68
Spanish
Minería by Sara Uribe ..........................................................................4
Día de precipitaciones por Guerrero Maricela .............................39, 41
Ceniza constante más allá del amor por Yolanda Segura ...................45
Plan de Acción Internacional para la Conservación
y Ordenación de los Tiburones, (PAI-TIBURONES)
elaborada del 23 al 27 de abril de 1998, en Tokio, Japón
por Xitlalitl Rodríguez ...................................................................84
Hay un lugar que encontré por Radjarani Torres................................11
Art
From Cantos of Sorrow by Maceo Montoya
Prescience of the Wind .........................................................................1
The Last Eulogies of Poets ...................................................................8
Inspiration of a Mournful Song ..........................................................15
Faith of Those Lost .............................................................................27
Drowned Remains of Winter Storms ..................................................40
Pleas of a Broken Man ........................................................................67
Cruel Violence of Families ...............................................................113
Death Beds of Patriarchs ..................................................................130
Book Reviews
Firestarters: a review by Katie Hoerth ............................................141
Nenitas: a review por Sara Uribe .....................................................144
What the Editors Are Reading.......146
Contributors .........................................................147
Prescience 0f The Wind
BorderSenses • Vol. 21
1
Hearts of Palm, Canned
Elizabeth Hoover
…her entire life searching for the elusive sea unicorn or
narwhal, the radio ribbons into my sleep: a series about a
marine biologist. She is explaining their mating habits when
the radio clicks off. By the time I get up and turn it back on
they are talking about foreclosure rates, entire cities empty. I
look up narwhal on the Internet, a white creature with a wide
grin and spiraled tooth. The next morning, the nets bounce,
she struggles into her survival suit. What do narwhals sound
like? Like seals or dolphins? Or do they glide silently,
communicating with smells and signs? The scientist sounds
young. She laughs a lot. She laughs about the nets and
about not catching anything. She laughs when the reporter
asks if she’s read Moby-Dick. The radio clicks off before
she answers. When I turn it back on, houses, bereft of their
owners, weep vinyl siding and fling shingles to the ground.
At work, I think of the arctic and the woman struggling into
her suit because she hears the narwhal’s cry. Or is it the
iceberg starting to crack? I drag numbers from a spreadsheet
into another spreadsheet. After work, I squint at my list in the
tundra of the grocery store. Hearts of Palm. I can’t remember
writing that or what hearts of palm are. At home I open the
can and find salty chunks of white flesh. The scientist wanted
to be a dancer. One day she lifted into an arabesque, heard
her ankle crunch like a walnut and knew. What did you
know? The radio clicks off, and the houses sprout kudzu and
cutflower. I click to a spreadsheet so my boss won’t catch
me reading about narwhal songs. She uses a spear to stab a
transmitter into a narwhal’s flank, trying to find out where
they go in winter. Do they dive into the deep to hibernate or
follow warmer currents south? I know where I go in winter:
I go to work. I go to the grocery store. I go home with my
canned goods. I dive shallower and shallower no matter the
season. I arrange the hearts of palm on a plate and she eats
them with her hands, sucks brine off her fingers. She laughs
about Moby-Dick and the crush of her tiny bones. Why
don’t you just ask them? But the chair doesn’t reply. I go
to bed early to pass the time before the next broadcast. The
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transmitter slips from the wound. It relays the current, which
sounds like a lung. I listen to pebbles grinding, her laughing
and sharpening her spear. I enter narwhal gestation periods
into a spreadsheet. On Saturday, the radio is hysterical. I
listen to markets shatter like china, but the scientist doesn’t
come on. On Sunday, the radio weeps for an assassinated
world leader and rides the bus to see how commuters are
dealing with the recession. On Monday it’s Korean little
league and executive suicides. On Thursday, I am out of
sick days and the radio hobbles through the wreckage of an
exploded marketplace. I fill my trunk with canned hearts,
head north.
BorderSenses • Vol. 21
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Minería
Sara Uribe
Ella viene de Tamaulipas.
Y todos sabemos lo que significa venir de Tamaulipas.
No lo dijo. Él pensaba en las carreteras.
Él decía Tamaulipas pero en realidad quería decir nada.
Él dijo Tamaulipas por decir nada.
Como quien nombra un territorio perdido. Una región que no
existe.
Y todos sabemos lo que significa venir de un lugar que no
existe.
No lo dijo. Él pensaba en el viaje de Tamaulipas a la Ciudad
de México.
Ellos abrieron ojos y bocas cuando les dijimos que habíamos
viajado por carretera.
Luego Marco lo dijo: la mejor forma de viajar a Tamaulipas
es por carretera.
Y ellos abrieron más sus ojos y sus bocas.
De tanta boca abierta no pude evitar que las moscas
revolotearan.
Moscas de la nada surgiendo de un bote de composta
del sombrero de un prestidigitador de insectos.
Ellos no abrieron los ojos porque nada había para ser visto.
Ellos no abrieron las bocas porque nada había para decirse.
Y todos sabemos lo que significa venir de un lugar donde
nada hay para ser visto,
donde nada hay para ser dicho.
Una carretera no es un lugar. Una carretera es siempre un
limbo.
Esta carretera lleva de Tamaulipas hacia ninguna parte.
Y todos sabemos lo que significa venir de ninguna parte.
Ellos aplaudieron pero estoy segura que la mitad no tiene
idea de dónde queda Tamaulipas.
Una mujer confundió los cuerpos de las fosas con un
desastre de mineros.
Todos los cuerpos y todas las carreteras, se sabe, conducen a
ninguna parte.
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BorderSenses • Vol. 21
Ellos no aplaudieron porque en realidad nunca estuve ahí.
Nadie leyó un texto sobre un hombre desaparecido.
Nadie leyó un texto sobre una mujer buscando un cadáver.
Nadie mencionó la palabra fantasma.
De haberlo hecho, Marco me habría acusado de
decimonónica.
No. Nadie habló de fantasmas.
Todos aplaudieron aunque no sabían de qué lugar, de qué
personas, de qué clase de desapariciones se trataba.
Yo nunca estuve ahí.
Nadie mencionó la palabra “yo”.
De haberlo hecho, Marco me habría acusado de lírica.
Este “yo” es, desde luego, retórico. Ficticio.
Y todos sabemos lo que significa ser ficticios.
Ella dice que Allá hay quien no cree que lo que está pasando
Aquí sea Real.
Ella dice que creen que Acá todos somos fantasmas.
Disculpen, señores, esto es una revisión de rutina ¿hacia
dónde se dirigen?
Ella viene de Tamaulipas.
Y todos sabemos lo que significa venir de Tamaulipas.
BorderSenses • Vol. 21
5
Penance
The Reason We Don’t Come Over
for Your Daughter’s Birthday
Leslie Marie Aguilar
Lupe Méndez
is a bittersweet tangerine sized pill I have to swallow every
year.
I hope all the beers, the meals I buy you, friend, keep you
from being angry at me. I cannot eat birthday cake.
A crescent moon sliced at my wife’s womb the night
I held my god daughter, and every year when that toddler
blows
out a candle, we shudder just a tad, a ruffle in our
diaphragms –
another year she celebrates without a play pal, that looks like
us.
The blackbirds in the withering pecan tree
behind my childhood home never made it
into the trash can after my father shot them
with his BB gun. They clung to the telephone
wires hoping for a last minute resurrection.
I found a dead squirrel in that trash can once
& wondered how it arrived there because birds
weren’t different than squirrels, at that age.
Blood from the body is blood from any body
& birds aren’t different than squirrels, father,
but I’m waiting for the right moment to tell you.
Now, I imagine the blackbird as a gun that hides
in your closet the night I come home too late.
It rattles its wings against the cage of your hands
& breaks them over my body. My blood is yours,
father, & I’m waiting for the moment to tell you,
the five blackbirds tattooed along my ribs use
their beaks as knives to carve out a place for you.
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7
The Line of Vision
Lily Iona MacKenzie
At ninety-two, her expectations are small—pequeño. She just
wants to get warm again. This last winter in Calgary was the
worst in ages. For weeks on end, the thermometer registered
way below zero, though she didn’t let the snow and cold stop
her from going out to play bingo or shop at The Bay. She
wrapped herself in layers of clothes, her fake fur coat on top.
But she still felt the cold more than she ever had.
The Last Eulogies 0f Poets
On this her first trip to Mexico, to Puerto Vallarta, the tropical
weather, temperatures in the high eighties, has dried out her
bones, making her light as air, like one of the paper maché
masks she saw at a shop on Insurgente. She must return and
buy one. Those masks interest her, the animal ones especially.
They’re not like any animal she’s seen. That’s why she would
like to take one back to Canada—something wild she could
hang on her wall, a jackal or a hyena.
From the penthouse condo she and her daughter are renting
on the beach, south of the Cuale, she watches the town
unfold around her. At times she pretends she’s the center
of Puerto Vallarta, that everything emanates from her, that
she’s the mother of it all. A queen bee watching her workers.
And work they do, from morning until past dark, sweeping
streets, raking the beach, making tortillas, cleaning rooms,
selling all sorts of trinkets and crafts. All of the activity
makes her dizzy.
So does the ocean—its continuous thrashing, its endlessness,
its changeability. During the day, she can see as far as the
horizon, the line occasionally broken by a boat. The line’s
steadiness comforts her. She can count on it always being
there. At her advanced age, anything that seems permanent
is reassuring. Everywhere she looks there’s sea and surf
constantly in motion. The condo itself seems to be moving.
At times in the street, holding onto her daughter's arm, she
watches herself tottering along as if from a great distance,
feeling unconnected to her human form. She has noticed
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9
this separation happening more lately, and at times she feels
confused, uncertain of where she is, floating apart from her
body. Suspended.
She has always had a vivid imagination. Her father and
uncles told her that; it was no news to her. But this isn't just
her imagination playing tricks. Something is taking shape—
perhaps another body. It just doesn't have a place yet. Being
in Mexico makes her more aware of it. Maybe it’s because
she doesn’t have to use so much clothing here. She truly is
lighter.
When she watches the surf surging forward, the sound at
times like thunder, it all becomes clear to her for a moment,
but then she loses it again. She’s like a wave losing itself
on the shore, turning to froth that dissolves, gripping and
dragging sand and whatever gets in its way back out to sea.
She’s both wave and what dissolves. She wants to tell her
daughter this, but it’s hard to put into words. She isn't sure
she really understands.
She likes to think she will live forever, but she's no fool. Her
friends are dying around her like flies. No one outlives death.
Does that mean death doesn't outlive death? That at some
point death will die too?
The thought encourages her.
Mexico makes her think of mortality. Her mother died
in Mexico City in 1930 not long after her 50th birthday.
Alone, or, at least, without her family. She’d left her abusive
Scottish schoolmaster husband, traveling south with another
man, her lover. A middle-aged woman trying to outrace
death. It caught her anyway.
drift into her room off the tiled balcony. But when she tried
to grab her arm, it wasn't there. Yet the image remained, and
the certainty that she was nearby, watching, waiting—part of
the Sierra Madres, the mothers, that embraced this bay.
The parasailors drift past the balcony, heading for the beach.
She's been watching them every day being pulled by a boat
over the Pacific and back again. If she were younger, she
would try it herself, and she urges her daughter to go up. She
wants to see her rise over the water and return to earth again,
alive. It feels like a rehearsal for death, to float above the land
not exactly in your own flesh, the sail filled with air holding
you aloft. How different was that sail from this body?
Her daughter refuses. “I'm too old, Mum. Besides, what if
something happened to me? How would you get back to
Calgary?”
It’s a good point. Her body doesn't function as it used to. She
has trouble walking on the cobblestone streets and uneven
sidewalks, never knowing when it’s all going to dip or
disappear altogether.
She doesn't persist.
On the last day in Puerto Vallarta, she asks her daughter to
take her to the beach. “I want to dip in the sea again. I used
to swim in it when I was a girl, you know, off Skye. The
Atlantic.”
On her second night in Puerta Vallarta, an orange-colored
crescent moon had hung suspended in the sky, as if from a
string, like a trinket off one of the mobiles she saw vendors
selling on the beach. It didn’t seem real, or it was too real to
believe.
They trudge across the scorching sand. A vendor shuffles
past, ten sombreros stacked on his head. “A hat, Señora?”
Behind him strolls an Indian woman, reams of silky flowered
material draped over her body. “A skirt, Señora? Look, it
wraps around like this. Fits any size.” And she demonstrates,
tying a strip of fabric around her hips.
Fish carved out of wood, mobiles trailing vividly colored
fish and butterflies, jewelry, blankets, charbroiled fish on
a stick—all these things swirl around her at once. And the
masks, just like the ones she saw in the shop. Bobbing up
and down. Alive.
Sometime during the night, she was sure she saw her mother
She can hardly bear the heat, the soles of her feet burning
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11
with each step. She should have worn her shoes. Then
the sand turns cool, damp from where the waves recently
washed it and a darker shade of beige. Her footprints look
strange, her feet bigger than she thought, but the indentations
so temporary. Another wave rushes towards them, froth
bubbling over their feet, and washes away the imprints.
“Do you want to go farther, Mum?”
“A little. I'd like to get a good soak.”
Back slightly bent and skin sagging in folds, she clings to her
daughter's arm as they walk slowly, stopping when another
wave rolls towards them, slapping their bodies and almost
knocking them over. She screams, “My shoes, they're gone!”
The sun blinds her, mixed up with the ocean, salt water in
her mouth. Everything seems to be spinning—the vendors,
the sun, the beach-front restaurants. Her daughter stands
there, steady.
Lineage
Jed Myer
How much could memory weigh? I thought,
still on the easy part up the rocks
to the ancient puebloans’ granary.
Up—out of the grove of the centuriesold black-branched mesquite, roots
deep through the dust and into the schist—
I walked, awkward
out of my city, a tiny-leafed
thorned acacia catching my sleeve
“It's okay, Mum, you weren't wearing shoes.”
as if to ask Wait a minute, where
do you get the right to climb here like this?
So I did hesitate, a catch in my breath,
The wave drags sand from under her feet, leaving two small
graves, and she hears a whooshing sound, the surf snatching
at her again.
as by my bones I did bear a weight,
a history’s heft. I’d have to breathe
for my grandfather panting in Philadelphia
Her daughter grabs her arm and holds on. The old woman
stares out to sea, as if looking into a crystal ball, her future
somehow held there. Flooded by memories of her youth on
the Isle of Skye, she bursts into song:
heat, grandmother gasping at gallbladder
pain cramping her diaphragm, sweet
Mrs. Gregory rasping out the Old Testament
Speed bonny boat like a bird on a wing,
Onward the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that's born to be King,
Over the sea to Skye.
Her daughter laughs, and they stand there, arm in arm. The
old woman stares at the ocean’s edge, stark against the
horizon. Its line steadies her.
story of Jacob planting his head
on a rock in the sand, my mother sputtering
smoke as she crushed the night’s last cigarette,
Dad croaking awake in a spiderweb
tangle of tubes on his hospital bed….
Thus I huffed the twists through the talus
up the red cliff—they’d hid the grain
in a few squat silos of cut stone. They must’ve
carried their own unforgotten, living
and dead, in their chests, along
with the baskets of sustenance strapped
to their backs. I imagined them
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13
black-haired and thin, deft in their steps
where the gritty path steepened, toes flexed
on the slippery footholds, and intent
as I found myself, hauling the souls
who’d shared breath with us up the slope
to those dark-holed eyes in the earth.
Inspiration of a Mournful Song
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15
Blood Games
Montana
Suzana Huerta
Itzel Guevara
Summer nights in Tlachichila are wrapped in stars, blanketed in
light points infinite and pulsing. It’s July—me and my primos
walk this cobbled mountain road, chasing fire with no regard
for holes or pits, gaping and ready to twist our feet, my ankles
so weakened by Northern California asphalt and concrete.
Ese día, después de mucho pensarlo, decidiste aceptar la
invitación de Muchachito y Vladi a jugar una partida de
póker, ni siquiera sabías jugar. Eso es lo de menos, había
dicho Muchachito, ninguno sabe, yo les enseño, además lo
importante es reunirnos.
I don’t know the bulbs that bounce before me are creatures.
I am certain they are tiny stars extended on the fingertips of
heaven—God reaches to earth more easily down here—my
mom told me once—said Mexico was filled with miracles,
like when she survived spinal meningitis with only prayers
and poison coursing through her veins.
Te prometiste nunca hacer una cosa así, nunca perseguir a un
hombre, nunca acosarlo y de hecho lo estabas cumpliendo,
entre él y tú ya no había nada. Sí, es cierto que recién
habías puesto punto final a esa relación, si es que así se le
puede llamar a lo que tuvieron, punto final que él había
interpretado como punto y seguido porque continuaba
buscándote, llamándote para decirte cuánto pensaba en ti,
mirándote durante las dos horas de la clase que tomaban
juntos. Nunca antes dos horas te parecieron tantos minutos.
Dejándote poemas entre los libros, pidiéndote que hablaran,
asegurándote que las cosas se podían salvar. Tú sólo lo
escuchabas, no respondías, ya no respondías porque estabas
convencida de que no había marcha atrás. Y ahora estabas
en casa de Muchachito y Vladi, que también era su casa, y
la de ella, y la de Jonas y Mel, dos ingleses que estaban de
intercambio este semestre.
So I grab at these tiny constellations, break them apart with
eager hands, managing only screams because already my
Spanish is fading and my broken breath cannot keep up with my
mind. I run aimlessly- bumping into my cousins’ elbows and
shoulders as we reach for the same, impossible, burning lights.
We pull the dancing lights into our hearts—smear them
across our chests and forearms, blend their fluorescence into
our sweaty palms and cheekbones. Julio, the neighborhood
boy who runs with girls and shares his mother’s make-up,
holds my face in his hands as he rubs a light across my
forehead, blessing me, como el padrecito, he whispers and
kisses it with love. Together our fingertips and necks are
aglow with fast fading fires in the night.
Returning to my tia’s kitchen, warm and yellow and thick
with the scent of beef stew and canela cider, I am shocked to
find the guts and legs of these light creatures blurred across
my skin, soiled so deeply into my new summer dress, their
faded blood no longer glowing. It is then I notice my own
blood, a bright, crimson stream so fine it looks like a ribbon
unfurling from the hem of my dress, grazing the inside of my
thighs. I don’t know what to make of it. All I know in that
instant is that the broken bodies I had killed and rubbed out,
so dangerously close to my open lips, gave me a hunger so
deep, I could hardly stand the wait for supper and song.
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BorderSenses • Vol. 21
A pesar de la situación te sentías bien, siempre te ha
gustado la sensación de ser la única mujer en un grupo de
hombres. Te atrae su comportamiento en manada y sobre
todo esa especie de hermandad, de cofradía prácticamente
inquebrantable que forman cuando están juntos, cuando sólo
se tienen los unos a los otros. Nunca has entendido del todo
los códigos de lealtad masculina, las reglas implícitas que
rigen al grupo, por eso te gusta estar con ellos, los observas,
los escuchas, a veces les pides que te expliquen por qué
hacen tal o cual cosa y ellos, con mucha seriedad, intentan
responderte. Siempre te conmueves por la muestra de respeto
ante tu curiosidad.
Fuiste porque no había razón para esconderse. No voy a
buscarlo, voy a ver a mis amigos, fue la frase que te decidió,
BorderSenses • Vol. 21
17
y en verdad estabas convencida, estabas segura de que a
pesar de esos pequeños momentos de debilidad, como tú los
llamabas, lo habías superado. Tu problema es que siempre
necesitas comprobar las cosas.
Llegaste y todos celebraron tu presencia, en especial
Muchachito, quien de inmediato acercó una silla y te
quitó de las manos la bolsa de frituras que llevabas para
acompañar las cervezas. Luego te preguntó qué querías
escuchar y tú le pediste una de Sabina.
Estabas un poco tensa, no podías dejar de pensar que era su
casa, que en cualquier momento podía entrar a este espacio
que no es cocina ni sala ni comedor, sino un híbrido al
que aún le estás buscando nombre, que también ella podía
entrar y entonces ¿qué ibas a hacer? Sin embargo, las risas
idiotas que los chicos soltaban cada vez que Muchachito
los regañaba por realizar una jugada sin sentido que
intentaban hacer válida y los vasos de cerveza ingeridos
ininterrumpidamente te fueron relajando hasta el punto
de que estar en el 909 de la Avenida Montana dejó de
preocuparte.
Vladi y Jonas se enfrascaron en una discusión sobre si
Sabina era un poeta marginado o un estúpido resentido
sin talento que en lugar de cantar ladraba. Aprovechaste
la distracción para escabullirte a fumar un Marlboro, te
estabas aguantando las ganas desde hacía rato y consideraste
mejor dejarlos solos para que se destrozaran, segura estabas
que no llegarían a ninguna conclusión. Cruzaste el pasillo
tambaleándote un poco (después de todo te la habías pasado
bebiendo), hasta alcanzar el patio. Era un patio grande y ya
le habías oído decir a los chicos que sería perfecto para las
fiestas porque cabía mucha gente, pero aunque había algunas
plantas sembradas a lo largo de la reja metálica que marcaba
lo límites de la casa con la calle, te pareció que ahí reinaba
un aire de irremediable descuido, como en toda esta ciudad,
pensaste. Mientras encendías el cigarro, viste pasar un gato.
Los gatos estaban por todos lados, gatos amarillos, blancos,
marrones, manchados, atigrados. Le habías dicho que esa
fue una de las cosas que te sorprendieron al llegar, por eso
cuando salían contaban los gatos que se encontraban en el
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camino. También le hablaste de los aviones, de la maldita
manía que habías adquirido de voltear al cielo cada vez
que escuchabas el ruido del motor. Los aviones se habían
convertido en la posibilidad, tu única posibilidad de volver a
casa. Y como las ideas se fueron asociando a emociones sin
que te dieras cuenta, los aviones eran nostalgia, eran no saber
por un momento dónde estás, eran sentirse pequeña. Un día,
bajo el rugido del avión, te tomó la mano y dijo, estás aquí,
estás conmigo.
Cuando el gato se percató de tu presencia, pegó un salto y
de puntitas, como si fuera una bailarina, se alejó caminando
sobre la reja. Entonces notaste que el cigarro se había
apagado, que llevabas un buen rato sentada al fondo del
patio. Pensaste que si alguien hubiera salido a buscarte,
habría creído que te habías marchado, porque incluso
pasando a tu lado, era imposible reconocerte en medio de
esa oscuridad, pensaste que era un buen escondite. Tiraste
el cigarrillo y regresaste a la casa, al pasar junto al baño la
escuchaste reír. Te quedaste ahí, frente a la puerta blanca,
te quedaste escuchando su risa que era auténtica, y también
inocente, casi infantil, sabías que era muy joven pero no
imaginaste cuánto. Era como la risa de una niña emocionada
porque le acaban de compran un globo, porque está en el
circo y ve a los elefantes marchando, porque va a hacer su
primera comunión y la vistieron toda de blanco. A él no lo
oías, no era necesario, sabías que estaba con ella, que se
estaban bañando, oías el agua cayendo, el chapoteo de sus
pies, sabías que él la enjabonaba como si fuera una muñeca,
que ella se alegraba de ser su muñeca.
Todos cometemos errores, me dieron la beca y tenía que
venirme ya, habíamos convivido poco, y… casarme fue
una decisión apresurada. Eso fue lo que te dijo el día que
lo confrontaste, el día que te esperó fuera de clase para
acompañarte a casa y finalmente te propuso que tuvieran
algo, que empezaran algo. Te lo dijo mirando al suelo,
a los escalones donde estaban sentados. ¿Iniciar algo?,
¿iniciar qué?, cómo inicias algo cuando tienes una mujercita
esperándote en casa, cuando ni siquiera es una casa, tan sólo
un cuarto rentado donde compartes todo, hasta el baño.
BorderSenses • Vol. 21
19
Sus palabras te resultaron poco convincentes, casi una burla,
pero cuando te jaló hacia él, cuando hizo un espacio en su
cuello para que colocaras tu cabeza y comenzó a acariciar tu
brazo apenas deslizando las puntas de sus dedos, entonces
todo tuvo sentido. ¿Qué vamos a hacer con esto?, preguntó.
No respondiste, simplemente lo besaste. Decidiste no pensar,
porque pensar lo complica todo, decidiste concentrarte en
esas manos que se metieron bajo tu blusa, que te rozaron
el abdomen, que subieron con prisa hasta tus pechos y se
estacionaron en ellos y te apretaron como temerosas de que
pudieras escaparte. Déjame entrar, te dijo. Tú obedeciste.
Muchachito se dio cuenta que no habías regresado y fue a
buscarte, pensó que estabas en el porche, generalmente era
ahí donde salían a fumar. En cuanto salió de la cocina te vio
al fondo del pasillo, parada frente al baño; se acercó, te tomó
del brazo, dijo: ven, y te llevo a su recámara. Estuvieron un
rato en silencio, oyendo las voces de los chicos que ya se
habían enfrascado en una nueva discusión, ahora sobre si el
decano de la universidad segregaba a la comunidad latina.
Muchachito te puso la mano a un costado del hombro y dijo
que estaba ahí para escucharte, tú, como si hubieras estado
esperando una señal, empezaste a hablar. Lo hiciste sin
escoger las palabras, sin seleccionar la información, como
una autómata. No puedes recordar, incluso ahora, qué fue
lo que dijiste, si entraste en detalles o si hablaste sólo en
términos generales, como sueles abordar las cosas, tampoco
puedes recordar en qué momento comenzaste a llorar.
Muchachito estuvo sentado frente a ti todo el tiempo, de vez
en cuando movía la cabeza de un lado a otro con los labios
contraídos. Temías escuchar un ¿por qué lo hiciste?, un tú
sabías en lo que te estabas metiendo, un ¿pensaste que la iba
a dejar por ti?, pero no dijo nada. Te escuchó sin decir nada.
Tú lo abrazaste, de eso sí estás segura, necesitabas un
recipiente porque estabas a punto de cambiar de estado
sólido a líquido. Esas fueron las palabras que utilizaste
después para explicarlo. Lo abrazaste y sentiste cómo
acariciaba tu cabello, luego se movió para estar más cerca
de ti. Te apretó con fuerza y escuchaste su corazón latir
rápido, sentiste que tu pena también era suya. Tomó tu cara,
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BorderSenses • Vol. 21
que estaba recargada en su pecho y se aproximó, escuchaste
su respiración, sabías lo que iba a suceder y no pudiste o
no quisiste hacer nada para evitarlo. Se besaron, y como
necesariamente sucede, el beso es siempre el principio.
Dijiste que no querías, y continuaste besándolo, dijiste que
no estaba bien, y te tiraste en la cama, le quitaste la camisa,
dejaste que él te desnudara. Querías levantarte y salir de
ahí pero tu cuerpo se abrazó al suyo, y lo dejaste entrar.
Era verdad que estabas excitada, que despertar el deseo de
un hombre, de Muchachito, te hizo sentir poderosa, y el
poder es fuerza, es dominio, es vencer a una persona, ser
más fuerte que ella, cuán necesitada estabas de poder. Pero
también estaba esa otra cosa que trataste de apartar, esa
especie de eco lejano y a la vez presente que amenazaba con
derrumbarte. Comenzaste a sentir miedo y cuando intentaste
decirle que era mejor que parara, lo que te salió de la boca
fue un gemido, un bello y profundo gemido.
Desnuda y abrazada a Muchachito sentiste tristeza, mucha
más que en un principio, el problema era que ahora no había
nada ni nadie para contenerte. Saltaste de la cama, buscaste
con desesperación tu ropa regada por toda la pieza, tu ropa
que era ya lo único que tenías, pensaste que si te vestías ibas
a recuperar la tranquilidad.
Muchachito se despertó y trató de detenerte, pero ya estabas
cerca de la puerta, y cuando la abriste te sorprendió el
silencio en la casa, parecía deshabitada. Apenas cruzaste
el umbral lo viste junto a la puerta de su habitación, la que
comparte con ella, como comparten la comida, la hora del
baño, la vida. Estaba sentado en el pasillo, con las rodillas
pegadas al pecho, lo suficientemente cerca para distinguir en
sus manos grandes, manos que tenían el doble de tamaño que
las tuyas, los nudillos enrojecidos. Incluso pudiste ver sus
venas un poco salidas y los delgadísimos vellos que crecían
en sus brazos, sin embargo, estaba lo suficientemente lejos
para tocarlo. Sabías que te estaba esperando, que te había
escuchado y quería comprobar que eras tú. Te miró, no dijo
nada, te miró y en su mirada había dolor, quizás tanto como
en la tuya. Muchachito salió poniéndose los calzones y al
verlos intentó decir algo. No te quedaste a escuchar.
BorderSenses • Vol. 21
21
Saliste a la noche que era amplia, inabarcable, una noche sin
nubes ni luna, tan sólo poblada de cientos de estrellas, y te
golpeó como una bofetada porque un día, en la celebración
que siguió a la presentación de un libro, él dibujó una
flor sobre una servilleta de papel y te la dio a escondidas.
Qué poco original, hasta pareces hombre, le dijiste; a
continuación le arrebataste el bolígrafo y te pusiste a trazar
en otra servilleta un montón de asteriscos. Antes de dársela,
escribiste: te regalo una noche llena de estrellas.
Comenzaste a caminar y tus pasos sonaron sobre el
pavimento, los únicos sobre Montana y tuviste la impresión
que también eran los únicos en la ciudad. El rugido de un
avión cruzó cortando el silencio de la noche, cerraste los ojos
para no escucharlo.
Our Lady 0f San Juan del Valle,
San Juan de Los Lagos,
Depending Which Side
of the Border You Believe In
Natalia Trevino
I.
I first saw you in my grandmother’s prayers.
Daily, she sat up in bed, whispering to your blue-gold
image between her thumb and forefinger.
Her brown eyes closed. Her prayer
easy as the wind coming through the screen.
O Maria immaculada. I only knew
you were a Mary.
Y siempre
bendita.
And always blessed. Your gown not woven like Guadalupe’s
soft drapes, but two stone-stiff triangles, each a winged sky
floating above gold leaves, covering you from neck to the
floorless
moon below your feet. Spread over your thin body
into a shape that would travel well
as a statue—
across the country,
across the Rio Grande.
Small traveler from Michoacan
to the center of Mexico,
no one is sure when, barely the size
of a dusty book or an old man’s shoe.
Somehow holy, somehow miraculous.
Dressed in a voice that is blue
and stars, you are the original
migrant miracle worker.
II. Miracles of Misericordia
At thirty, I finally listened to my grandmother’s words,
Madre de Misericordia, she said, and I only heard what my
English could
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23
break apart, Mother of Miser-something, (Misery)?
Her back molded into her pillow
under that open window,
her routine:
to pray after she bathed.
Washed, her thin strands of hair curled into upside down
question marks along her neck.
Her well-shaped nails
held your prayer card as they would
a thin needle.
So I asked her, why this Virgen when it was Guadalupe
who Mexico loved to burn with holy candles,
who brought Juan Diego roses
in dead winter.
Porque es muy milagrosa, she said, with or without
thinking of miracles she’d once wanted
in her own house:
to end her son’s leukemia,
to dry out the pneumonia in my grandfather’s lungs,
for her own legs to stand again,
to hold a broom, sweep the dust from her street.
III. Migrant Virgen,
Our Lady of San Juan,
your eyes do not look down
at Juan Diego from a sky, nor halfshut in grief or compassion—but are armed
against the distance above a grail
and the moon.
Your crown three times as large as your face.
Your crown, a floating indigo earth,
a planet of water with no land to fight for.
Your crown, the earth where we’ve
struggled,
where we’ve crossed one another and borders with our own
travel-sized miracles:
miracle of a bottle of water;
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BorderSenses • Vol. 21
miracle of a photograph tucked under a bra;
miracle of a sandwich shared,
made three hundred times,
three hundred miles away.
Your crown, I’ve crossed its brown, Rio Grande, three
hundred times and more,
where my Green Card,
then my blue card,
while other children crossed pale deserts,
swam and died in that sphere above your head.
Madre de Misericordia,
Mother of Misery, of Mercy.
I am still learning that difference
between you
and my grandmother,
your identical names, Socorro, Mercy.
Between Mercy and Mercy,
between the prayer
and the one who prays.
IV. From One Eye to Another
My Grandmother held your image no larger
than a painted thumbnail,
Whispering esos tus ojos
reflujentes a mi.
She, or was it both of you,
crocheted in the light of most afternoons
masses of geometrics opening
and closing to form fine fabrics—
warm embellishments that spread like winged
constellations to drape over our own
beds, tables, the television, all the largest
of human possessions: Maria de Socorro,
‘Buelita whispering colors into the eyes
of her needles, esos tus ojos
reflujentes a mi..
Those, your eyes,
reflecting me
on both sides
of the border
BorderSenses • Vol. 21
25
Seeking Oracles
Donna Snyder
She gazes at the flame between her eyes, holds her breath until
she is nothing but heart, the world’s pulse between her ears.
She finds black feathers at her doorstep, unsure if the augury is
good or ill. Each night she folds her legs and disappears into
the sacred fire. She greets the sunrise with a sigh.
Voices echo conversations on eschatology and doom. She hides
from them behind guitars’ excruciating sweet. Words repeat
themselves perpetually in silence. She sees pictures on the wall
where there are none.
She knows little of souls but talks to the dead, visits them in
their tombs inside her body. Somewhere outside her head, the
smell of palo santo smolders. Somewhere, the sounds of hard
wind through metal and water dripping. Floorboards creak and a
door closes, of their own accord. She never knows whether her
ghosts linger, or if she binds them to her, refusing to let them go.
In her sleep, she wraps herself in sheets like Lazarus. When
she wakes, she arises from the grave into a world of dust and
blinding sun, the desert heat a shroud. There are no dreams
here, just her third eye ablaze. She dresses in the memory of
rain. Her hair a burning nimbus, her reflection falls into the
caves beneath her eyes.
Everything is bleached as coyote bones in this landscape she
wanders, and every living thing has thorns. The path is full of
rock, forlorn scat, and sorrow. Everyday she trips and falls.
When the flame fades she returns to now, along with ordinary
sight. The flicker of candles glows on the other side of her
eyelids. The sound of heartbeat subsides and that of barking
dogs and sirens resume. She realizes the music had been inside
her head, as had the desert, the thorns, and the talking dead.
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Faith of Those Lost
BorderSenses • Vol. 21
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