Translated by Stalina Villareal
Sergio Pérez Torres (Monterrey, Mexico; 1986) is the author of the collections of poetry Caja de Pandero (2007), Mythosis (2009), Los nombres del insomnio (2016), Barcos anclados al viento (2016), Cáncer (2016), Cortejo fúnebre (2017), Party Animals (CONARTE, 2017), El museo de las máscaras (2018), and La heráldica del hambre (2019). He is the recipient of the prize from the IV “Ana María Navales” Literary Competition (Spain) and of the honorable mention from the XIII Castello di Duino International Poetry and Theater Edition Contest (Italy) and the New York Poetry Press First International Poetry Prize (U.S.A.). In Mexico, his work won the XXVI “Ydalio Huerta Escalante” National Poetry Prize 2016, XXIV “Bartolomé Delgado de León” Sonora National Prize of Poetry 2016, Carmen Alardín National Poetry Prize 2017, among others. His first fiction book Los arcoíris negros (Editorial De Otro Tipo, 2020) won the 4th Call for “Author Search” and the Call for Joint Publication 2020.
XVI / Second Tongue
Ten years in another language,
……….its blue discrimination,
but in what memory can’t grasp
…..…..I tie myself to the femur you forgot on a boat;
that way the photos survive the disaster.
Love is an orange hanging from a branch,
heavenly body recently beheaded;
it dangles in the air from just one vein.
If only the wind were not its clock.
All the wrong time
…..to eat when it’s the moment to laugh;
the cold silence,
…..…..…..like not being able to kiss in public.
You miss music and the high pitch of weeping.
Your parents were your first words,
toothless monosyllables for those without memory.
The heart was not a roof
…..with its aortas clogged by the thickest fat,
in the drawing a double tile,
…..…..…..…..…..a picture window,
and the road that led to a day that barely dawned.
XXXIII / Photographs
The lens opened only a moment;
right then the light filmed what I viewed.
I aimed with the corner of my eye;
the flash makes me sore.
We stopped ourselves to live
…..as, in another time, days passed by,
and nights posed.
I never manage to translate smiles.
The love was a silence,
…..…..…..but now I scream,
an open sky for festivities,
including in some funeral rite when I did not die.
It’s true that I danced even inside your dreams.
I opened my door and fed my hunger bread,
but the wine of other lips was all mine.
The dawn loved me more than the sun.
I didn’t need to sleep;
…..…..…..…..my life was someone else’s dream.
Here it’s different from the faces I was;
everything happens with more haste.
The gesture is more rehearsed;
they calculate the rest of my life.
For me insomnia stays;
it tells me what I did before locking us up in photos.
XLI / Hospital
Here you find each game of death;
a miracle occurs with red drizzle
…..…..inside some transplanted heart,
a flower that falls over new land.
The surgeons look like cannibals;
aseptic cutlery disguises their appetite.
They open flesh with etiquette standards;
an I. V. bag calls an unknown thirst.
It’s easy for clocks to stop
or that gravity reverses uphill;
a pregnant woman leans in
…..…..to give birth to a boy face down.
…..…..…..…..there are those who go to an illuminated tunnel;
on the geriatrics floor
…..senior citizens turn to butterflies.
They abandon their bonbon body.
Bones break and refit;
arteries empty or veins fill,
all this whiteness,
…..…..…..this sky of suffering.
Interns pass like souls in purgatory
…..…..fighting for a definitive place.