My Nombres by E. García-López

My Nombres

I prayed anoche to hear, once again, my stolen namesIgbo or Yoruba, maybe Guanche, and Boriken. Light unveiled a frail whisper.

(Dia-

I gather sins and atonements that fall like night lluvia in Otoño-

I bring sonrisas and scars imperfectly lashed to the formidable wrinkles of mi cara-

I have the piel as rings in a tree, another condition of time that dice I was here-

I confess lies to the azucenas my mother buys every Sunday and puts in the clay vase shaped by the hands of my esposa E. García-López

I fling words and visiones against a wall of hours, a Pollack-like Convergence, pero of unremarkable genius.

I live inside dos mundos neither one me conoce, still, I reap their wounds, sufro in their struggle-

-amanece)

I divined my namesa clamor from thirsty slavesthey returned spoken with the magia from billions of estrellas so far- too far away- to hear before morning.