Three Poems by Silvia Eugenia Castillero

Three Poems by Silvia Eugenia Castillero

Tres poemas de Silvia Eugenia Castillero

Silvia Eugenia Castillero


It was a small world, rain vaporizing inside my nostrils, my half-open eyes exposed to the splintered elements. Then came the avalanche of forceful debris, debris? aggression? A violent basin of waterfall that fled into the sky, then fell—absurd, broken—torn from a poisoned cosmos, whiplashing, blowing fury from some foul, dark hole, spewing all its rancor from an abyss into our faces, falling onto our mouths—we could neither speak nor articulate fingers or knees, kneeling before the tumultuous water, drops threaded one after another in a vortex of current. We raised our voices in prayer, but they faded into the deluge, rocked between fists of water, gale-like blows of current that knocked us down. Our prayer plummeted into the depths, thrashed by the brusque, guillotined fall of water: that sharp curtain, almost a lance, a sword on our backs, falling ruthlessly, not knowing the subtlety of falling without further ado, stinging even the abyss, doing damage thus with all the drops together becoming lightning, vertical lines at sharp angles. Water, current, scraps of fury out of the dark side of the heavens, from the missing link of paradise, from a dislocated, abrupt life left beyond known, familiar spaces. Lashings, scalpels, knives, guillotines and disappearances right there, in the heart of the river, of the jungle, eyeless, tasteless, helpless to gaze at the selfsame wind, we were stranded, unconscious in the middle of the sea, conquered, the water pouring out its sorrow, its hard heart poisoning the cascades that, like vines, beat our bodies into darkness. In voluble deluges—brutal apocalypse—we were run through by death.



Downriver this darkness

bores into my heart,

sinking in its metallic claws.

Sharpened, its knives

freeze out any attempt

at light, any sign

of balms. Sunflowers,

rivaled stained glass windows,

tattered water without light

hound me, shield me,

cowardly black

my hands abandon

steps frozen solid, the moon

turns it back and balances something

unattainable. Downriver I

sink, not seeing my reflection,

feeling only the bustle

of blackness

over my desire.

A deafening touch, my cells

—bound, gagged—

until I scream. And so

with sharp shocks

I decompress my nerves:

that is when I leave you.


Splinter, chip, sawdust.

Misguided threshold.

There is where you are sunken by its blow, 

a pinnacle that falls daily

into your smile

—afterwards astonished—

or over your meadow eyes

to pollute your greenery

with stagnant mud,

unsaid mud, mud like

a volcano that spews stones

—there is no liquid or light.

Only blocks come to you

thrown by my hands

empty of candor, filled

with acidic clods;

hands sharpened like swords

that hate.   

They reach your neck and bind it

—besieged by rancor.

Since then, you have mistrusted

and fled —preferring

to ask the night

whether tomorrow will come,

those hands that wish

to avenge themselves

and sink their chagrin

into the open sky of your eyes.

Translated by Tanya Huntington

Silvia Eugenia Castillero 2039_Silvia_Eugenia_Castillero es directora de Luvina, revista literaria de la Universidad de Guadalajara. Desde 2007 es miembro del Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *