Bio
Silvia Bonilla lives in New York where she works as a translator. Her work has appeared in 12th Street, Leveler Poetry, Fat City Review, White Ash Magazine, among others. She has received scholarships from Slice, Vermont Studio and Tupelo Press.
The Four Eves
In
the morning, women flock
to the sound of opening
bells.
There
is salt and blood in the breathing
holes of fish, and a bubble—
a word
caught in the last breath
before
death.
All
signs spell fresh at the market.
The Eves come early everyday from el
barrio.
Irene wants
the heads of fish for broth
and
loose wings for a stew.
Matilde
inhales the rusty smell
of pig’s blood and watches
the still
protected heart under the knife.
She shifts
her eyes to the sunflower stand,
quick, make it quick.
She
once wounded her own heart
and that pig’s!
Eves
walk the dark corners of La Plaza,
stand after stand filled with the worlds
gifts:
maja powder
from Spain
and kohl
they burn the tips of
to make
dark.
They
hold their purses to their armpits
except for Sonia, who keeps her
monedero
in her bra and tobacco
on her lips.
She
pokes the animals as if to wake them up,
closes the tuna’s eyes—they’re too revealing of his suffering—,
kisses the
boar’s feet, your excellence!, and
bows.
On
freshness,
only the
skin can testify.
They
stroll and dream of the inexhaustible lives
playing on Irene’s T.V.
set.
Bleaching
cream gets pulled from the shelf.
Emilia
holds it to her face and her coarse laugh
is wind with danger in it.
Someone
sprays perfume and the mist swirls
inside the cone of light
coming from the holes in
the roof.
Emilia
moves on to the hens
and twists the head of the one she likes.
She fingers
the insides, looking for eggs,
until
she finds the yolks in their sacs,
and laughs hard.
At
night, the emptiness of the old world.
Men resting on cherry beds, unaware
that the world is coming
in silvery thrills from Irene’s house.
Eves have
each other and some wishes,
coming out
of a long recline,
in
blue eye shadow.
Curiosity
exchanging acrobatic glances
with these women.
Each
night, they fold their eyelashes up
and rub romero oil on their brows to
keep them dark.
They wish
for disturbances,
but even the dust settles the same way in their houses,
like the flakes of skin on their beds.
Matilde
watches her husband’s fingers,
peeled by the concrete,
knowing
the impression of them
across her
face.
Once her
girl is asleep, she sits outside in her thick skin
and tries
to solve the mathematical nuances of her life,
her insides like a
swollen rope.
She
falls asleep, all her dreams intact.
Sonia
eats her late-night snack of bread and coca cola,
her kitchen dark, but for the
candle.
San Gabriel’s light hits
all of the walls,
replicating
the rhythmic stretches of her arms.
The
Eves are learning a new history
and the bible can’t compete, for
lack of proof.
Ruby
She
doesn’t want to brag
about
real love
but
she married at the country jail
in
a blue shirt-dress she borrowed
from
a friend.
What
he promised her, only she knows,
but
she was always after it.
One
Saturday a month
A
bus takes her for a weekend of marital bliss.
A
black suitcase with lace
and
his cravings of green plantains.
She
loves his built up body
and
the kiwi tone of his eyes.
His
breath is sacred
wind
and all other clichés.
This
was art: to follow him
as
he broke up the law,
until
he was stopped by a bullet.
They
have nothing left but the ordinary:
a
beer, a cigarette shared.
He
explains the future to her.