BIO
Lucía Damacela’s work has appeared in venues such as Poetry Quarterly, Cha (Hong Kong), Slippery Elm, Into the Void (Ireland) and Duende. One of her poems won first prize at the Wisehouse International Poetry Award 2016. Born in Ecuador and having lived for many years in the USA and the UK, Lucía currently lives in Singapore with her family. She blogs at https://notesfromlucia.wordpress.com/ and tweets as @lucyda.
The Visit
Memories, dandelions springing
up through the cracks of my faraway
routines: he, reading by the window,
front door open to the late evening
breeze; our last conversation, by phone:
“bring my
granddaughter,” he said two
weeks after G’s birth. “I need to meet her.”
I am at his new place, with no shade
in sight, and a sudden urge squeezes
in among the grief: to free whatever
is left of his body, plant a guayacán
–the ‘ironwood’
tree– right here, let
him nourish it so that he could, in
time, feel the breeze again, drink
from the earth’s entrails, stand strong
and tall, shelter me under his shadow.
Reality sinks in; the carnations I
brought will have to do for now.
Fresh and white, and slightly more
lasting than a visit, I place them on
the marble plaque that carries his name.
Staycation
It is summer
and both of us are between jobs.
My sister just called;
they are going to Margarita Island,
she says.
That is the place where Simon Bolivar
started his independence quest that
freed five countries from colonialism
I immediately think, but don’t mention.
Nor do I tell her my plans;
for us, a tent in the backyard will
do.
I am counting on stars, candles and
body heat
for entertainment;
we got rid of cable two weeks ago.
Our pantry bounty consists of
a bag of wild rice and a few cans.
I pulse for more and find some
lentils.
Lotus-seated, we share the last
remains
with a beer and a fresh salad;
the squeezed moon provides the
dressing.
The moment is broken by the ring of
my phone;
I get the waited call.
Oppression or liberation,
I am not sure, but
tomorrow will be Monday again.
En la Ruta del Mar
Conduzco por la autopista de la costa,
espléndida en su soleada soledad.
Bajo desde el cerro hacia la playa,
ventanas abiertas, la velocidad golpe
en mi cara,
mi pelo libre se enreda con las brisas
del Pacífico,
con gafas de aviador, resignada a
tierra firme.
Cuando el descenso termina continúo
por la vía paralela al mar.
El, abalanzándose espumeante contra los
farallones;
yo, con lo mío,
conservando mi distancia.
El cielo se ha tornado, intempestivo,
del color de un muro de piedra
con incrustaciones de plomo.
Mientras los mensajes se acumulan en mi
móvil,
rock pesado se entremezcla con la
lluvia,
tamborileo duro, incesante,
como si el muro de piedra se viniera
cuesta abajo, demolido.
Paso por caseríos vacíos,
sus rutinas sobrecogidas por el
aguacero.
Los sombreros de paja cuelgan
de los dinteles de los quioscos,
extemporáneos y brumosos.
Bandejas con cocadas y melcochas
sobre mesas techadas con manteles de
plástico,
guarecidas.
Sus sabores me asaltan el paladar
pero nadie las está vendiendo,
no con esta lluvia,
a pesar de que su aroma se desgañita
para alcanzar a los viajantes.
Los botes de pescadores sobre la arena
ennegrecida por el agua,
las redes desparramadas alrededor de
ellos.
En el gris del horizonte,
parecen gigantescas mantarrayas.
Me pregunto si habrá pescadores en la
mar alta,
atrapados en el vendaval, perdidos,
sus botes a flote a duras penas.
Me tranquilizo al ver que nadie está en
la orilla,
esperando, avistando el mar. No hay
peligro, me digo,
no hay peligro.