Wandering Words & raquo; Archive My Neighbor Without Men - Wrong Words

By Dinapiera Di Donato. A fence made of cactus
marked the home of the sting ray's harpoon
her black veils rippled
no one talks to her

not the breeze, not the dry-up well

the girls from Madeira
sell lace from a white bundle
they feel like pigeons beneath her gaze
avoid her

p> my grandmother takes pails of water for her
an offering placed before the shut door
while teaching us courtesy
forcing on us ladylike manners
comb our hair say thank you bid farewell
and catch stones

the vengeful sayona gathers up her
Diogenes syndrome and spills
yards of smooth filaments around her neck < br> I do the same in the ceremony of the waters

hers silver with tortoiseshell
mine dark with an eternity taming
my thatch with an eternity she
brushes hers to a shine
between us and the water
my grandmother knew.

we were good demons
taking care of each other

her barbed wire fence ttracts hummingbirds
to the cactus flowers

the sweet fruits allowed us

her threadbare cloak washed for us
my four-year-old war cloak
her ninety -year-old solitude

my own
my grandmother knew

that we could
pluck up the courage
if we were to carve < the pathway through the house
polish gooseberries
as a gift

not me
I did not know

my grandmother crosses the threshold
because Gema Orta is dying
I clear a path through the midden with a junior witch's spell
because I am a soldier and never a princess and > her remains are carried off in suitcases full of wind that I choose

my grandmother knows

it was the wrong choice: up

oneself up inside with fear and gray cacti with their fuchsia flowers
the shotgun a silence
to protect oneself
and the unfailing love of another old woman > who understands

my stubborn grandmother would not succumb to a bribe for an ID card that lawfully belongs to her
Gema Orta the vampire the weird forlorn one
the only one on our street without running water
let the stones fall
my grandmother wraps her in Madeira lace

these are different times
a village of unploughed, fog-wrapped hills
golden dust choking the streets > at the bottom of the last water pail I perceive the future and the starting point:
this shady place of entwined leaves
will be good
the oasis for parched mining caravans
but not yet

a fence of spiky plants with dry tracks of the great river

a suitcase of bones as strong as jasmine flowers with the word canarí A close-up made of cactus
was the house of stripe harpoon

My neighbors without men


laughing in a white tied
they feel like doves in their sight
they avoid it

my grandmother brings cans of water to her
deposited offering before the closed door
has to be polite
the treatment of dona obliges
combing to be thanked to say goodbye
to cut in the air of the stones

of smoothed filaments
the nape of the neck
I do the same
in the ceremony of the waters

her silver with a tortoise shell and mine dark for an eternity taming
my tangle
an eternity she
taking off shine
between both of the water and my grandmother knew.

we were good demons
taking care of us


your barbed-wire fence attracts the hummingbird
for the thorny flowers

sweet fruits that allow us

your ragged layer washed for us
my four-year war layer
its solitude of ninety

mine and my grandmother knew

I did not know I did not know

My grandmother comes in for the first time
because Gema Orta is going to die
I throw away the dump with my minor maga formula
because I know soldier and never princess

they carry their remains
great suitcases full of wind that I choose

my grandmother knows

that was not the right choice:
not to be packed
to fold in with fear and gray cardones with their fuchsia flowers
a silent rifle
to take care of alone < And the love that does not lack another old woman who understands

It was a place of people found
but I was lost and I confused the customs

mi stubborn grandmother refuses to bribe
her right to an identity card
Gem Orta the vampire the rare the single
the only one on the block
no running water
loose the stones < br> My grandmother wraps her in a sheet of Madeira

Are other times
village made of foggy hills without agosta
golden dust in the neck of the lles
I see the bottom of the last water can
the future and the origin:
it will be good this shady place
the oasis of the thirsty mining caravans
but not now

a siege of sharp plants
dry tracks of the great river

a suitcase with strong bones like diamelas
the word canari in the next breeze < / p>

Dinapiera Di Donato was born in Upata, Venezuela (1957). She lives in New York where she has taught French and Spanish and studied for her doctorate at CUNY. She has studied in France and taught literature and creative writing in Venezuela. She is the author of * Night with snow and lovers * (1991), * The smile of Bernardo Axtaga * (1995), * Book of Rachid Avenue Paul Doumer * (1996), * The deaf * Collateral * (2013), * Count Aristeguieta * (2013) and * Vitrales de Aristeguieta * (2014). Her work has received many prizes and has been included in numerous anthologies.

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