A foray into the state of orphanhood
by Zora Sowinska
After Octavio Paz’s “The Sons of La Malinche”
One month into my stay here, I ask to turn
on my air conditioner for the first time. It becomes
a little moon for me to see with. To the left side of my room
I’ve laid out my cenote soul, histories turning tile into dewspot.
One day, I find a cockroach dying in front of my door
and cry, remembering my cat who never murdered anything. I die twice
trying to cross the street, but no worries. Forget the past and
construct another future. I go where worlds take me.
Our life here smells like good dog piss, hot wet
junky love. Across the globe microbiologists make bacteria
birth plastic and I wonder what I will have
changed into by the time this is over. Rolled ice cream, cryptobytes,
cracked cement, iguanas pressed like flowers, heat currents, hard lights,
things I invented, things I wish I didn’t. The first lesson taught to girls
is that we’re prey. As the lights dim, cold and romantic on the bus ride
home, I see the faces of a million women in their blouses, hair clips,
bag menageries, practical sneakers with a foot off the ground. Do we feel the same
on the inside? When the doors open, the same singular thing that stops me
from biting my finger stops me from leaving. After all we’ve done,
all we can do is wait for tomorrow. This poem is translated in my mind,
but there will always be this sun, that heat, the big backyard palm
who plays movies across my face and tells me the truth slowly. Tell
me everything slowly. Light my body through the water of yours, good big
and bland as fresh jicama. Wait, wait, hope, wait, become
familiar, see how everything is different, see how you know me a little,
see how you understand what I’m saying, how you understand
the way I feel alone. After all, you live it everyday. When I’m lonely, we bake a cake. Here,
in the state of orphanhood, there is always something wonderful happening.