Dialect of a Skirt by Erica Miriam Fabri

The young girl wanted a new voice. After all, people got
new things every day. A new hip, a new nose, a new set
of suspenders. She adored the consonants that landed
like wooden shoes. She loved the type of L-sounds
that made a mouth drool from the back of the tongue
to the front. She practiced her new voice into seashells,
tin cans, caves. She gave her first performance quietly,
into the ear of her sleeping dog. She could tell by his snorting
that his dreams were of fat tree trunks and black, truffle-filled
soil. Later, she drove to the local gas station and used her new
voice to ask for a pack of cigarettes. She wasn't wearing a bra,
but the attendant didn't notice. He was too busy listening to the way sound seemed to drip out of her mouth
as she said the word, Camel.

Lazy Jane

Marcello, dove sei?

I will survive!

Feria del Libro de Madriz

Poems for Blok, by Marina Tsvetaeva

Your name is a—bird in my hand,
a piece of ice on my tongue.
The lips' quick opening.
Your name—five letters.
A ball caught in flight,
a silver bell in my mouth.
A stone thrown into a silent lake
is—the sound of your name.
The light click of hooves at night
—your name.
Your name at my temple
—shrill click of a cocked gun.
Your name—impossible—
kiss on my eyes,
the chill of closed eyelids.
Your name—a kiss of snow.
Blue gulp of icy spring water.
With your name—sleep deepens.

Deep in sides

http://carinebrancowitz.com/index.php?/portfolios/personal/

Sobre llorar

Me daba miedo abrir los ojos. Llorar no, llorar nunca. No se puede abrir los ojos y derramar lágrimas. Con los pies mojados uno sólo se pone a parir. Las almohadas tienen memoria. Lo sé por los trazos que dibujan mis pestañas cuando te echan de menos. Kanjis negros de mi pena negra. Pero esta mañana soñaba que mi padre no quería a mi madre, la engañaba con Otra y lo negaba. Otra vendía mis libros, indolente. Mi padre se moría. Mi hermano no era mi hermano. Mi hermano era otro y no me gustaba, pero no se moría. Los vecinos me asaltaban por la noche y me daban puñaladas con la venia de todos. Me quitaban mi casa y me arrancaban los libros. Intentaba dar pasos hacia adelante pero descubrí que mis pasos no tenían vuelta atrás. Quería llorar y no podía. Recuerdo que tenía amigos y me despedía de ellos. No sabía si esta vez podría lograrlo. Hoy quería llorar pero he abierto los ojos.