2 Poems by Sol Camarena Medina

Mourning of the lesbian body

 

The way mourning’s discretion settled on the padding inside my throat

and now little girls avoid my stories. All of my poems speak of someone who’s dead

even if they don’t name it – all of my metaphors of dust and birds

are actually a way of praying for a sky that cradles me down there

to a God whose face I’ll never be able to see. I’m tired

of looking all the way up.

 

I’m tired of skyscrapers and their large windows, tired

of the way no house smells of home anymore

and I’ve got the nicknames my grandparents gave me

hanging from my ears like they’re the earrings that I never wear. Don’t you get me? They didn’t pierce my ears when I was born

and I’m already way too much of an expert

in body profanation.

 

Ask a lesbian about a body

and she’ll reply with a question – ask me about a body

and I’ll reply with a battery of nonsense

but all it means is, for me too, after so many years

writing with these fingers

the mechanics moving them still remain a mystery to my eyes.

 

When sunset comes we beg for it to finally dawn

and Father nags us for the impatience. mum curls up into a ball and cries meanwhile pneumonia wraps her in her gold thread arms

I travel into the future and find myself torn apart at my parents room doorstep

after telling them I slept with whirlwinds just to be moved. This lesbian

speaks so much of respecting herself, for someone who doesn’t even know

how to be polite to her own mourning. I shake it and throw it into the river bank

and I push it and at the last minute I cling to its blades. I don’t want

to be left alone. I wouldn’t want

to be the only one. But it pains me so much

for other hinds to cry the way I’ve cried.

 

© Sol Camarena Medina

 

To say monster is to say woman

who does not breastfeed – who tears off her own chest – who dyes her long hair a gothic color

to shave off her crane skull afterwards and get rid of all locks. To say monster

is to say I love you and then

I loathe you right after, since someone installed a ceiling fan on my heart

in order to keep the air moving even in the midst of the stickiest summer

and now every time I beat my insides squirm because of the wind

and everything I’ve ever wanted to say I say backwards.

 

Medusa

doesn’t ever read my poems. She’s busy

crying – and i’m busy shouting at Nothingness – and Nothingness

is busy dissolving in the fire

which doesn’t cauterize the wounds

anymore because each and every contusion

results in dead women. I wanted to scratch this stinging

and my hand turned into a claw and I tore my pelvis. I wanted

to kiss my own shoulders

and suddenly I’m all fangs

and there’s no neck

to help turn my head

and so I’m only looking at you.

 

I didn’t want

to dedicate this poem to you. Monster woman

retires. Monster woman

wonders why it is that she always ends up saying ‘goodbye’

instead of ‘stop it’. Backing up

in her own land. I’m about to urinate

on each and every table leg, I tell myself. I’m about

to carve out my initials, in bites, on each and every

tree trunk

in this forest. But I never do so. But I always sob.

 

© Sol Camarena Medina

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