I walk on in shade, filled with light: does day exist? Is this my tomb or my maternal dome? A pulsing beats against my skin like a cold shard that sprouts, hot, red, tender. Perhaps I’ve not yet been born, or have always been dead. Shade rules me. If this is life, what could death […]
Miguel Hernández
Miguel Hernández: Lullaby of the onion, Translation by Renato Rosaldo
The onion is frost closed and poor. Frost of your days and my nights. Hunger and onion, black ice and frost, big and round. My child was in a cradle of hunger. He nursed on onion blood. But your blood, frosted with sugar, onion and hunger. Dissolved into moon, a dark woman pours thread by […]