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
Madness Muse Press 