I have myself declared stateless
until with my past recovered
forgiveness might be found.
What is the wound? you asked
My childhood, a neighbourhood
a working class neighbourhood
with cars by the sun bitten.
A trickle of water flooding the street.
A tacit terrorism inside the pretended
shelter. One eyed, yellow glancing.
Tall adults, yet not that tall maybe
with still faces of steel. From one
side to the other. Mother weeping.
My childhood is a tale for the
little girls.
Regarding writing, a house, own
room wanted. Always regarding,
a black cat preventing you from
shuffling your children off.
I never knew a house apart from
the body I inhabit. If that is so,
I haven’t seen further shelter
than those yellow eyes that
seem now
Translation of poem: Volver a casa