In calling me Feminazi
You’re missing one detail
The one who walks the streets with fear
is
me.
Tag: poesía
“Volver, volver,” by Elisa Chavez
¿Cuándo volverás a mi, amor?
Tus hijos te extrañan;
la niña llena el estómago,
esperando que casi trago
se parezca tu voz. En tu jaula,
disecan mis cartas y sacan
“besos,” “espero,” “tu propio.”
¿Cuándo volverás a mi, amor?
Tus nietos te extrañan.
Sin ti, tu hogar se ha marchitado
de los cimientos; los recuerdos
de treinta años hacen ecos como
fantasmas. Tu tierra te extraña:
añora los besitos de tus pies.¿Cuándo volverás a mi, amor?
El amor es más fuerte que la ley.
¿Cuándo me cantarás “victoire,
victoire”? No soy yo sin ti, no puedo
florecer sin ti. ¿Cuándo nos
volveramos mejor, amor? ¿Cuándo
nos volveramos América?I have c a r e f u l l y reviewed
your immigration history.
In addition, I have carefully
considered the assertions
made in your request for
a stay of r e m o v a l,
specifically the fact that youare a primary caretaker of your
two U.S. citizen minor children.
You were granted the opportunity
to d e p a r t f r o m the
U.S. of your own accord,
but have failed to do so.
You are currently categorizedas an ICE fugitive. Therefore,
favorable exercise of discretion
cannot be granted at this time.
Your application to stay
is therefore d e ni e d.
P l e a s e b e a d v i s e d
that there is n o appeal.The Miss Translated series is a meditation on identity, language, and the things that get lost in translation. If you like Miss Translated, consider supporting me on Patreon or tipping me on Ko-fi. But before you do that, call your congresspeople and tell them it’s time to abolish ICE.
Saldré a morir por el amor, tus veinte años y un fusil.
(insp: Canción por el Fusil y la Flor – Damián Sánchez, Bernardo Palombo.)[Translation: Listen to me, I want to be a flower but if not, I’ll be a rifle. / I’ll go out to die for love, your twenty years and a rifle.]
Mi tumba no anden buscando, porque no la encontrarán
mis manos son las que van en otras manos tirando.
Mi voz la que va gritando, mi sueño el que sigue entero,
y sepan que solo muero, si ustedes van
a f l o j a n d o .{insp: Milonga del Fusilado by Carlos María Gutiérrez and Jorge Cafrune}
[Translation: Don’t ask me my age, I am as old as everyone. I chose many ways to be older than my age. And my real age are the shots I’ve fired. And even though my body may die, I will have the real age of the child I’ve set free. // Don’t go looking for my tomb,because you won’t find it. My hands are those who keep on pulling in other hands. My voice the one that keeps on screaming, my dream still intact, and know that I only die if you give in.]
Rebellions are built on hope 