Cenex leaves Poseidon.
What’s the word for breaking a sweat when you fill out your name?
When I came out, I kept no memories.
When I came out and was better,
I was given dates for my compliance.
To reach the office, I had to walk down
an avenue flooded with the husks
of schools, now private parking lots,
now asking for directions,
now assuredly here.
It is hard to know if I was first a stranger to myself
or to invasive species. The sapo concho was brought
to cure sugarcane of parasites. It is now ours, operatic,
sexual, pleated with boils. It eats cat food
and joins pigeons and hens.
The strangers who moved here brought an ocelot
they hope to raise on an empty farm.
They are huddled in assaulted towns.
To call them settlers is to confess permanence.
When I first left Poseidon, I didn’t recognize
buildings. The others had stayed behind to finish
training or to die on operating tables, or they fled
and were eaten by church organs and fear.
But I knew that if I wanted to make my way
in our newly discovered world,
I would have to forget like a habit.
May the old gods forgive me
for outlasting.
Translated from the Spanish by the author
Notes:
Read the Spanish-language original by Raquel Salas Rivera, “Cenex deja Poseidón.”
Source:
Poetry
(November 2022)
