Hincada
toda la vida frente a la virgen y a la bandera,
desarrollé unas rodillas fuertes
para sostener a mi patria.
De la costra de mis rodillas nacieron todos los hongos de la tierra.
Frente a la virgen y a la bandera, de rodillas, recé y canté.
Crecieron mis rodillas hasta echar raíz,
hasta ser árbol,
madera,
mesa,
cama,
muleta,
atril.
Aquel sostén de niños que morían y se convertían en héroes y santos,
en héroes santos.
Alrededor mío crecieron todos los frutos de la tierra.
Cayeron al suelo y nacieron otros.
Tuve trigo,
tuve harina,
tuve pan.
Tuve hambre.
Y nada probé.
Kneeling
all my life before the virgin and the flag,
I grew some strong knees
to uphold my fatherland.
All the earth’s fungi were born from the scabs on my knees.
On my knees before the virgin and the flag, I prayed and I sang.
My knees grew until they sent out roots,
until they were tree,
wood,
table,
bed,
crutch,
lectern.
That buttress of boys who died and were converted into heroes and saints,
into hero-saints.
All the earth’s fruits grew around me.
They fell to the ground and others were born.
I had wheat,
I had flour,
I had bread.
I was hungry.
And I didn’t take a single bite.
de Galería de los héroes
V
Las niñas se levantan la falda y paren.
Paren.
Paren niños delgados como ellas.
Apenas aprenden a caminar, los niños se caen.
Apenas hincan el diente en el pan, los dientes se caen.
El pan es muy duro,
los dientes son débiles,
los dientes son de leche, dicen las abuelas.
Los niños nunca han tomado leche:
ni siquiera una gota
se desprendió del pezón magro de la madre.
El calcio solo viene de la leche y de los huesos, dicen las abuelas.
La leche está muy cara.
La leche está muy lejos.
Por lo tanto, los niños optan por los huesos.
Los niños comen los huesos,
mastican huesos,
van dejando un diente en cada hueso partido.
Pero el hueso tiene fuerza en la médula,
y la médula los va convirtiendo en unos niños enormes,
malogrados,
ojerosos.
Ojos turbios.
Y los niños van mordiendo lo que encuentran en el camino.
Muerden a los perros,
muerden a los gatos,
atrapan a las palomas,
les rompen las alitas,
y chupan cada hueso de la alita.
Tiran las membranas,
escupen los corazones de los pájaros.
Los niños van creciendo.
No son débiles como las madres.
Siguen encontrando en el camino a las vacas y los caballos,
encuentran los vehículos, rompen los cristales;
encuentran las casonas, rompen las rejas.
Y los niños,
con sus dientes astillados,
con sus dientes malcrecidos,
con sus dientes podridos,
van mordiendo lo que encuentran en el camino.
Y muerden,
sobre todo,
la mano que los alimenta.
Los niños muerden
incluso
la yugular de esa niña
que es su madre.
from Gallery of Heroes
V
The girls lift up their skirts and give birth.
They give birth.
They give birth to boys who are thin like them.
Just as they learn to walk, the boys fall.
Just as they sink their teeth into bread, their teeth fall.
The bread is so hard,
their teeth are weak,
they are milk teeth, say the grandmothers.
The boys have never tasted milk:
not a single drop
flowed from their mother’s meager nipple.
Calcium only comes from milk and bones, say the grandmothers.
Milk is so expensive.
Milk is so far away.
Thus, the boys opt for bones.
The boys eat bones,
they gnaw on bones,
they leave a tooth in every split bone.
But the bone holds strength in its marrow,
and the marrow keeps morphing them into giant,
ruined,
baggy-eyed boys.
Muddy-eyed boys.
And the boys keep biting whatever they find in their path.
They bite dogs,
they bite cats,
they catch pigeons,
they break their little wings,
and suck each of their little wing bones.
They discard the membranes,
they spit out the birds’ hearts.
The boys keep on growing.
They are not weak like their mothers.
Along the way, they keep finding cows and horses,
they find vehicles, they break the windows;
they find mansions, they break the bars over the windows.
And the boys,
with their splintered teeth,
with their misformed teeth,
with their rotten teeth,
keep on biting whatever they find in their path.
And they bite,
more than anything,
the hand that feeds them.
The boys bite
even
the jugular of that girl
who is their mother.
Elena Salamanca (San Salvador, 1982). Writer and historian. She has published La familia o el olvido (2017 and 2018), Peces en la boca (2013 and 2011), Landsmoder (2012), and Último viernes (2017 and 2018). Her work has been translated into English, French, German, and Swedish. Since 2009, she has combined literature, performance, memory, and politics in public space. She is a doctorate candidate in History from the Colegio de México, and her thesis investigates the relationships between Central American unionism, citizenship, and exile. She earned her masters in History from El Colegio de México (2016) and the Universidad de Huelva, Spain (2013).
Ryan Greene (Phoenix, 1994). Translator, poet, and bookmaker. He has translated work by poets such as Claudina Domingo, Ana Belén López, Giancarlo Huapaya, and Elena Salamanca, and his translations have found a home in places like Asymptote, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Tripwire (forthcoming). His translations of selected poems by Ana Belén López appear in the bilingual chapbook rojo si pudiera ser rojo // red if it could be red (Anomalous Press, 2019). He currently facilitates the Cardboard House Press Cartonera Collective bookmaking workshops at Palabras Bilingual Bookstore in Phoenix, Arizona.
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