Tuesday, December 31, 2019

A dozen characters in search of a peculiar son

Review: Sergio Troncoso. A Peculiar Kind of Immigrant's Son. El Paso: Cinco Puntos Press, 2019. ISBN: 9781947627338

Michael Sedano

13 stories make up the two-hundred pages of Sergio Troncoso’s A Peculiar Kind of Immigrant’s Son. (link)It’s a book so compelling it easily consumes an afternoon in a single reading, then days re-reading, provoked into thoughts on material success, identification, sex, quotidian life, and story-telling.

Troncoso gives characters their own names and spaces, linking their stories to offer readers points of view the characters won’t know. There’s added enjoyment for readers when characters don’t recognize significant overlaps. Troncoso plays with that in one story, bringing strangers together with one degree of separation from a third, leaving readers on the edge of their seat, like running into your first lover in a random airport.

Despite different names, I read them all as the same character who left Ysleta, only they played out their lives in alternative futures. Each story is the imagined “what-if” yearnings of a fifty-something man surrounded by links to his past. I am David. I am Carlos. I am Galilea. I am Vendo Claridad. Reading these stories as if they all are the same person on parallel courses comes from a conversation Carlos has with his suegro.

Who knows what changes the human heart. Who knows if it changes at all. Maybe the objects around it simply change too, so the heart – in– the – world is only an older heart lost in a different world. The question then becomes: are we the same person as our younger selves, or a collection of different selves in new worlds, or something disquietly suspended between the past and the present?

Why shouldn’t raza hold Harvard degrees and work on Wall Street? Marry Jewish girls and seek out bad Mexican food in Manhattan? Follow your heart, if that’s what you want. The Peculiar Immigrant gives permission for that. In this sense, it’s a perpetual coming-of-age story because fitting into the establishmentarian world of Columbia professorial chairs or investment banking cubicles, exercise competencies that begin developing early in a lifetime.

It sets you apart. The dead father had told his son how loved the boy was but held him at a distance, “you are not like any of us.” He is “Joe, the different Mexican” of the poem “22 Miles,” but instead of high school rings their fingers have MBA class rings and if the work they do is stoop labor, it pays six figures and buys condos near the park.

Troncoso’s raza in monied or prestigious milieus hold their own with matter-of-fact social and professional competence, and save a repentant racist suegra, being a Chicano doesn’t overtly trouble these characters. Troncoso excavates that dreadful sense that lurks around the edges of social mobility, and saves it for the last story. Some call it “imposter syndrome” but for Troncoso’s character it’s a sense of being pursued by a wild beast in a trackless wilderness, or have no space of one's own.

The wild beast story closes the collection, introducing a new character after readers have come to terms with Paul, Galilea, Carlos, David, Sarah, Arturo, Melissa, Lori. Vendo Claridad, the final version of the peculiar son, waits until the end to raise the big issue of belonging. Given the dystopic setting of the closing two stories, the beast leaves readers with an uneasy gloom that remains unspoken, one's feelings for the collection not clear at all. In fact, the ambiguity of “Vendo” and its nearness to “vendido,” add to a reader’s unease in accounting the book’s closing words. Peculiarly provocative.

A Peculiar Kind of Immigrant’s Son reverberates with literary significance as Chicano Literature, and for a bunch of academic reasons, but it doesn’t have to. Readers don’t have to catch all this, instead just enjoy the way Troncoso tells a story or uses characters to flesh out peculiarities of the Harvard Chicano. 

Carlos acts a total asshole blithering on about how put out he is while between-the-lines his wife is busting her back to make a good life for this jerk. 

Another fellow, Julio, is a cameo at the velorio, then gets righteously murdered in a later tale.

Galilea will catch every reader’s interest, just for her and the cat’s name, but more so for her eroticism. She’s not particularly likeable as her story opens, especially when she has casual sex with that pendejo Carlos. Then, Gali’s husband Ben dies from a second bout of prostate cancer, leaving Galilea a million dollars. 

Empathy takes a roller-coaster ride in Galilea's and several stories, sometimes accompanied by humor. A character crashes and readers fear we’ve lost her. Nope, just the leg. Look for it, you’ll laugh out loud at the understatement.

Erotic writing calls attention to itself. Sex and lust occupy significant parts of youth, and old people remember passion with yearning, so these scenes are essential, though some obnoxious, others spicy. 

Troncoso delves into adultery from both a man’s and woman’s perspective, making his story devoid of moral dudgeon. Galilea likes to have fun and fulfills her own expectations. Mostly his characters betray out of pendejismo, but that’s neither here nor there. They just do it.

I don’t want to ignore Troncoso’s instructions on how to read and think about his book. Troncoso offers this, what seems reasoned and valuable, it’s an element of torture and assimilation into a dystopic republic of reading:

They asked for a nuanced view of each book, a viewpoint based on details about characters or scenes or writing style, or better questions and possibilities posed by the book to the reader, and in reality, all of the above. 

If anyone tells you Troncoso's book island dystopia is a bad grad school experience, they’re right.

Monday, December 30, 2019

“Painting” a short story by Daniel A. Olivas

That pinche Alejandro…makes me take my pinche clothes off to paint me, my picture, me in the nude because he says mi cielo that is how your soul comes out to touch me, fill me up, only with your naked skin.  Some kind of pendejo jack-ass shit line he laid on me and because I was all fucked up on Coors I said, okay, you want to paint my naked ass, okay, here it is and I take off my shirt, sweat pants and everything and just kind of toss my shit up there on the fence and I hear a coyote scream like a woman in labor and the sun is coming up and Alejandro says, perfect!  Perfect!  You look so bonita, Ana, he says and he holds up his pinche thumb like those old movies and closes one eye, one perfect brown eye with eyelashes out to here and then he starts to paint.  And he paints.  And he paints.  And the sun begins to spit out reds, yellows and oranges and I’m kind of cold but he says in a whisper, almost done, mi amor, almost done, don’t move, I need to finish.  And then I go all soft inside because he believes in his art, his painting, and in me.  But then I begin to shiver and I say, fucking finish already, pendejo, and then he throws me this look like I fucking kicked my abuelita or something and he says, fuck you, bitch, fuck you.  I say, wait, wait, I didn’t mean it, mi cielito, I didn’t fucking mean it, but he’s already walking away muttering something.  I don’t know what to do so I cross my arms over my tits and walk to his canvas, all naked still, and take a peek at what he’s been doing and it like totally takes my breath away, locks my breath up in a closet, because I’m beautiful in this painting.  So beautiful.  I pick it up and hold it, smelling the fresh oil paints and then I walk it over to the fence, set it down, and step back.  And the coyote is quiet now and the sun begins to warm me and I just stare at myself by the fence.  Who is that?  She’s so beautiful.  Totally beautiful.  And I breathe in the morning and the paint and I can’t stop looking at her.  At me.

[“Painting” first appeared in Tattoo Highway and is featured in Anywhere But L.A.: Stories (Bilingual Press, 2009).

Friday, December 27, 2019

New Christmas traditions and Ghostly visitations

Melinda Palacio

I later added photos to the cards.
Caroling at Jackson Square

Last Sunday, I participated in the annual Christmas caroling at Jackson Square in New Orleans, a tradition that’s been going on since 1946. I’ve learned most of the Christmas songs in church or at school. However, caroling or singing Christmas songs was never part of my family’s traditions. We went to posadas at church or the midnight mass on Christmas Eve and then woke to open presents and eat tamales, ojarascas, and buñuelos.

Although I miss many of my childhood Christmas traditions, and especially the women who made all possible, my mother and grandmother, I appreciate some of the new traditions I’ve incorporated in my adult life. One of my new hobbies is singing, and I especially love Christmas songs because they are fun and easy to remember and I only song them around Christmas.

In New Orleans, strangers become fast friends as they gather and keep each other’s candles lit and sing a dozen carols. The caroling begins right after the evening mass and folks who have gone to church get the best spots inside Jackson Square.

On Christmas Eve, when I gathered with friends for dinner, I made sure we did some caroling before the evening ended. After singing I was going to put my guitar away, but something made me ask if anyone had any requests, and here’s where things got a little spooky.

Earlier in the day, I had strung up Christmas cards and I added a picture of me and my mom to the left side. When I asked for any song requests, everyone noticed that the side of the string with her picture on it, moved up and down.it was as if someone were tugging on a wire to make a bus or street car stop. Everyone present thought the same thing: my mother was there in the living room with us and she wanted me to keep singing.

In my mind, that my mother was sending me a signal of approval from beyond this earth seemed perfectly logical, plus she was never one to miss a good party, and she loved to sing, especially Christmas carols. I played a few more for her. My favorite Christmas gift  was knowing she was present and having had half a dozen witnesses to this event. It was a nice reminder that she is always with me.

Thursday, December 26, 2019

An After Christmas Day Story

by Daniel Cano                                                                          
A bar scene, not unlike the Lucky-U
     The story made its way around town for a number of years but passed-away along with many of Los Angeles’ Westside old-timers, who were young men and women when the event occurred.
     According to Westside lore, the story even made its way into a column of the now defunct Los Angeles Herald Examiner, where an intrepid reporter turned it into a poem, which appeared the day after Christmas in its evening issue. So, the poem began, “T’was the night before Christmas and all through the….”
     That’s about as far as anyone can remember the poem, but they all remembered the incident. I have googled the original poem, to no avail, so it must be buried some place, I’m sure, in the Los Angeles Herald’s archives, but without a date or the reporter’s name, it is lost to posterity.
     Indeed, old-timers agreed it did happen on the night before Christmas.
     On Santa Monica boulevard just west of Sepulveda across the street from the Nuart Theater, and two blocks from the Soldiers Home, was a notorious beer joint known as the Lucky-U, where the heartiest of spirit enthusiasts spent many a day and night.
     Since the Lucky-U was located down the street from the Veterans Administration, many disabled WWII and Korean veterans lined their wheelchairs along Santa Monica boulevard and Sawtelle avenue, where the Lucky-U competed with a couple of other bars, one famously known as the Vet’s Bar.
Happy to survive the war, top, Freddie Santana, Ray Cano, kneeling L-R, Dario Sanchez, George Saenz, Richard Sanchez
     Seeing as it was barely 20 years since many of these men had returned home from battles in the Pacific and Europe, they numbed their ailing bodies and minds in the local bars. Of course, the government denied war had anything to do with their mental maladies, including high levels of alcohol consumption, which led to a variety of negative conditions, such as family disruptions, divorce, unemployment, and absentee fathers.
     It must have been the late 1960s. Inside the dark, musty room, the Lucky-U reeked of booze and spicy food. After 5:00 PM, it was rare to find an empty stool at the bar. The men played pool, sat at the tables scattered about, but most stood around, drinks in their hands, laughing and talking boisterously. All of the men knew each other, had been raised in Westside towns, and, many were, in fact, related.
     Behind the bar was a kitchen, of sorts, serving an assortment of Mexican quick meals, burritos and tacos. Some claimed the weekend menudo the best in town. Everybody knew the owner and bartenders, what Sly Stone would come to call “a family affair.”
     Actually, a few men claimed to have seen Door’s lead singer Jim Morrison knocking back a few brews; though, nobody, at the time, knew who the long-haired kid was. Morrison verified his presence in the Lucky-U to one of his biographers, years later.
     I will only use our protagonist’s first name, Joe, seeing as some of his children and relations might still live in the area, which is highly unlikely, since increased taxes and property values have driven out the old paisano families, as John Steinbeck might refer to them. Yet, Facebook is a mighty weapon, and who knows how many friends may read this and pass it on to unsuspecting family members.
     On that fateful Christmas eve, the bar had closed before midnight, seeing as even serious drinkers needed to make it home to their families on such a blessed day, our savior’s birth.
     Apparently, Joe had something else in mind. He hid in the bathroom and waited for the bartender to announce he was locking up for the night. There wasn’t much need to search the premises. Who would want to stay in the Lucky-U after it closed, anyway?
     So trusting was the owner, he left the cash register full of money until opening the following day when he would empty the till and collect the prior night’s earnings. My father once told me, “Who would rob the Lucky-U. It was like a second home,” a displeasing admission to many wives and children in town.
     Eventually, Joe came out of the bathroom. He called to make sure everyone was, in fact, gone. He walked straight to the cash register, opened the till, and started cramming the bills into his pockets.
Joe had been a loyal, long-time Lucky-U customer and not a thief, by nature. Surely, he thought long and hard about the course of action on which he was embarking.
     He considered the Lucky-U’s owner a friend, who was known to give patrons credit to partake in the establishment’s delights, so Joe must have had good reason to abscond with the cash.
     Here, Joe's motives become somewhat murky. He might have been out of work and didn’t want to return home broke and with no gift on Christmas eve for his wife and kids. Maybe he had bills to pay and found himself more desperate than ever. Either way, he now had his pockets lined with enough money to do whatever needed to be done.
     As he made his way to the back door, which led to a dark alley, and an easy getaway, he looked back at the bar and thought, why not just one drink before making his way home? One drink, how could that hurt? Sure enough, vice got the better of him. He headed to the bar, sat down and poured himself a drink.
     Once he finished, he figured it was time to make his getaway, but then, he thought, hey, why not one more, even if his conscience warned him against it. Why push fate? He had his money and one free drink. That should have sufficed.
     But now, with his whistle wet, the desire for another drink became overwhelming. So, he took advantage of the open bar and poured himself a tall one. Well, you know what happened from here. He couldn’t stop, and he just kept pouring and drinking.
     The next morning when the owner opened to collect the prior evening’s “take”, he found Joe slumped across the bar, passed-out cold. Of course, the owner was confused as to how Joe had gotten in, seeing as there was no apparent break-in. Complete confusion, until he looked down and saw dollars spilled on the floor beneath Joe’s bar stool, and greenbacks of various denominations peeking out of Joe’s pockets.
Innocent swagger before the war
     The following is supposition on my part, for nobody told me how the reporter learned about the story. I can only surmise the owner called the police to report the robbery, which generated buzz from an otherwise listless Christmas day Herald Examiner news desk, sending the reluctant reporter from his warm cozy desk in downtown Los Angeles out to the wilds of West Los Angeles to check the minor criminal infraction.
     After conducting rudimentary interviews with people at the scene, who had fits of laughter at Joe's poor execution of robbery, the Herald’s reporter, his creative juices flowing, decided against writing a boring piece about a neighborhood drunk serendipitously breaking into a local bar, choosing instead to memorialize Joe’s escapade in verse, borrowing the elements of prosody from a Christmas poem published anonymously in 1823 which began, “Twas the night before Christmas/ and all through the….”

Wednesday, December 25, 2019


Review by Ariadna Sánchez

Happy Holidays! Christmas is a time to celebrate with family and friends surrounded by the spirit of love, peace and happiness. Christmas is an occasion filled with hope, good wishes and delicious food.

Today’s book is Tamalitos written by the award winning Salvadoran poet and writer Jorge Telt Argueta and illustrated by Domi. To read the poems in this book is a succulent experience. Reading Tamalitos today could turn your Christmas evening into a delicious family moment. Argueta’s delightful poems are an invitation to embrace the importance of traditions with a tasty approach. Each poem guides the young reader to get involved in the art of making a unique and appetizing tamal.

Tamales first appeared in the early 7000 B.C. in Pre-Columbian history when the Aztec women served as cooks for the armies during battles. There was a need to have a more portable yet sustainable food and the tamales could be made ahead of time, packed and warmed as needed.

Tamales have changed in size, color, shape, and filling, depending on the location and the resources available. The wrappings varied from cornhusks, to soft tree bark, to edible leaves, such as those from avocados and bananas.  A tamalis mainly composed of masa (hominy flour dough) spread on a corn shuck and filled with either chicken, pork, beef, green chile, cheese, or, more recently, vegetables.

The preparation of tamales is time and labor consuming. The tamale making process takes almost all day and preparations often start one or two days prior. Some families associated the tamales with the Christmas holidays and some other special occasions. 

Today, the influence of the tamales has expanded beyond the Latino community and is loved by all cultures. If you or your family is having tamales for dinner, hopefully you will appreciate not only the time and effort that went into making them, but also the history behind it.

¡Feliz Navidad! Reading gives you wings. Read this mouthwatering book today.

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

2019 Santa's Last Chance

Michael Sedano
What a difference a decade makes. This is my 2010 Christmas Letter to Santa, slightly updated. The pendejo addressed in the letter looks like a saint in comparison to the present occupant. Marty and Ed's tamalada continues for the Nth year in succession, but Barbara and I no longer attend late-evening events, so we're in no position for life to imitate art on our walk home. By the way, click links like this to songs and stuff alluded in the letter to Santa.

Dear Santa:

Seems like only yesterday I wrote you all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, so I could with you merry chrithmath. And here we are today, several implants and numerous fillings later, but my two front teeth are all mine, so thanks for granting me that small wish.

Then there was that bit of trouble, remember? I saw Mommy kissing you underneath the mistletoe that night. How was I to know Daddy was wearing your suit?

But I didn't pout, I didn't shout. I was nice. I'm wise to that list you keep and check twice. Coal pollutes so that’s an empty threat.

Nothing can top that Red Ryder BB Gun from 4th grade. Thank you, I see fine with one eye. It's not your fault. Besides, it got me out of the draft back in '68, so all in all, that was another good Christmas for me. Then, there's that saying about tierra de ciegos el tuerto es rey, but I'm not a monarchist.

What did Grandma do that pissed you off that night, coming home from Marty and Ed’s tamalada?

Pasadena Local Astonisher 12/25/18
Sure, people say there’s no such thing as Santa, then again some laugh at Global Warming.
But getting run over by reindeer is a hard way to reaffirm one's belief in your existence, Santa. Mejor, just go ask Virginia, que no?

That year I asked for RAM and got Mary's little lamb? It grew up, you'll see, by the way. I meant computer memory, Santa.

So, knowing you have a low tolerance for ambiguity, I am going to keep this short, sweet, and specific, OK?

First, all I want for Christmas is a room somewhere. Please make it far away from the cold night air. And make it a big room, and soundproofed because the joyful and triumphant, they make a lot of noise, and those scruffy guys with the camels, they’re always complaining and whining like cats, “just the worst time of the year for such a journey, the ways deep and the weather sharp, the very dead of winter.”

Second, please bring Bernie some ink. And airtime. 

My third wish, dear Santa, is new this year, and I'm not alone, so don't allow high demand to deny my wish because this wish is for everyone else. You don't have to bring me diddly.  

So here's the wish: If you can't bring Mitch a moral conscience for Christmas, just swing the swing states to decency in November. Out here in the real USA, we'll GOTV like we did before, Santa. 

P.S. Those are gluten-free cookies from a Good Mexican Girl, and the chocolate is made with lactose-free milk. And do enjoy the mutton stew.

Monday, December 23, 2019

Para cerrar el 2019 poesía en Casa del Lago UV por Xánath Caraza

Para cerrar el 2019 poesía en Casa del Lago UV
por Xánath Caraza

El miércoles pasado, el 18 de diciembre, Casa del Lago UV abrió sus puertas a una velada poética para cerrar las actividades de 2019.  Estuvimos presentes los poetas, Pablo Rodríguez, América Natividad Blásquez Vázquez, Paula Busseniers, Julio María y la que escribe.  A continuación, para los lectores de La Bloga, fotografías de este evento literario acompañadas de las semblanzas de algunos de los poetas con algunos de sus poemas. Aprovecho para agradecer a Casa del Lago UV por esta oportunidad, a Maliyel Beverido, Directora de este recinto cultural, y a todo su equipo de trabajo que lograron de esa noche una llena de poesía.  También agradezco a todo el público que cálidamente estuvo con nosotros durante esta tertulia literaria.  Ojalá, queridos lectores, que disfruten las siguientes imágenes y poemas. ¡Felices fiestas!

Pablo Rodríguez

Estudiante de Lengua y Literatura Hispánicas por la Universidad Veracruzana. Editor de Revista Literaria Tintero Blanco. Becario del Festival Interfaz Cultural Oaxaca (2016) y del Décimo Curso de la Fundación para las Letras Mexicanas (2018). Ha participado en el Encuentro Nacional de Escritores Jesús Gardea (2019) y en el Segundo Encuentro de Jóvenes Escritores UAM-I (2019), en el área de poesía. Textos suyos han sido publicados en diferentes medios digitales.

Un reloj sin pared

nada lo sostiene
es perfecto
entre sus manecillas
sigo dando vueltas
cada que digo tu nombre

este reloj es un hogar perfecto
para ver los sillones los álbumes mi voz
no queda nada más
hago de su inicio un fondo
si es que realmente hay
inicio o fondo
hasta que esta hora
sea la hora
que tú me anunciaste

América Natividad Blásquez Vázquez es estudiante de la licenciatura en Lengua y Literatura Hispánicas. En 2016 participó en el “Octavo Curso de Creación Literaria para Jóvenes” que organiza la Fundación para las Letras Mexicanas. En 2019 participó en el Congreso de Estudiantes de Lengua y Literatura en Guadalajara. Recientemente obtuvo el tercer lugar del Premio Nacional al Estudiante Universitario, que otorga la Universidad Veracruzana, en la categoría poesía José Emilio Pacheco, con la obra titulada Lord Ganesh.
Ha sido publicada por la Revista Literaria Monolito y Tintero Blanco.

Conflicto de fe

Ya no caben dioses en las marcas de la quiromancia,
tampoco se quedan,
se ahogan en el sudor nocturno, entre las uñas;
huyen de mi voz rancia
del picor de mis encías
del suspiro que se queda a medias.
Y la eternidad; manto estrellado, ya no se acuerda de mi nombre
ni de mi vestido de infancia
ni de mi canto de infancia.
Y yo ya no me acuerdo de los nombres de la omnipotencia 
porque dejé las llagas de mi aliento en un mantra 
Om Lambodaraya Namaha
en el Dhammapada
en el polvo de incienso 
en el rezo apolillado... a esta hora, la de siempre, le rezo al Supremo
que se acuesta en la esquina de una nube: la nube de la no existencia,
y bosteza
y sonríe con sus dientes amarillentos,
con sus dientes de abuelo, y pienso:
escuchar al alma es ahogarse en la más profunda sequía:
encontrar el centro 
más bien encontrarse tirado en la nada
señalar las paredes de la nada
rasguñar las paredes
apretar los dientes
aguantarse la sed y el hambre 
aguantarse las penas

Paula Busseniers es originaria de la región flamenca de Bélgica, radica en México desde 1972.  Es profesora de la Facultad de Idiomas en la Universidad Veracruzana.  Escribe poesía y cuento y traduce poesía del inglés al español.

Último fragmento de Un Muro de Cristal Líquido, dedicado a mi madre, Serafina Elsen (1907-1966))


Madre, estoy a ciegas en el laberinto.
Soy un molusco que se aleja del centro,
deslizándose al mundo.

Siento las yemas de tus dedos
enviando inaudibles pulsaciones,
acariciándome… acariciándome…

tus latidos
a través de la membrana,
tu intermitente respirar,
apenas una hebra de aire
que después de largos intervalos,
se estira y se encoge    
como las secretas transmisiones
                              en la radio clandestina.

Suspiras, madre, tan silenciosa…
Así de débil,
así de tenue, de entrecortado,
palpitan las estrellas de otros universos.

es mi deber, nacer de nuevo.

Voy de regreso al umbral.
Escucho tu canto de amor.

Un día no lejano
te alcanzo
junto al río.

me esperas en la lancha.

para ambas
las monedas
al remero.

nos lleva de regreso              
al origen.

Xánath Caraza es autora de dieciséis libros.  Escribe para La Bloga, Seattle Escribe, Smithsonian Latino Center y Revista Literaria Monolito.  En 2018 fue doblemente galardonada por los International Latino Book Awards, por Lágrima roja y Sin preámbulos/Without Preamble como “Mejor libro de poesía en español” y “Mejor libro de Poesía Bilingüe”.  Sílabas de viento recibió el 2015 International Book Award for Poetry.

Seres de agua

Seres de agua viajan
en la corriente turquesa
en las densas vías acuáticas

Seres de agua transitan las pegajosas
y contundentes rutas de la mente
masculinas palabras

Seres de agua de los canales lacustres
rotundos pechos, Tritones a la caza
Neptunos en marcha

Seres de agua que respiro en la noche
me acechan, cazadores de poesía
océanos furiosos

Seres de agua que expulsan caudalosos ríos
emanan cascadas, mares incontenibles
sal y arena en las venas

Seres de agua, hierro y ojo de pez en la sangre
aroma a algas marinas
sólo uno era mío, sólo uno he perdido

Seres de agua, de agua mansa, agua brava
agua turquesa, agua espesa, agua ópalo
canales de agua, agua muda, masculinas corrientes

Seres de agua efímera, contundentes tritones
Poseidones embravecidos, sólo uno, de agua era mío
sólo uno de agua he perdido

Ser de agua fluyó de entre mis manos
se escurrió de entre los dedos
en el silencio del mar lo he perdido

Seres de agua imaginaria que expulsan
caudalosos ríos, fría luz del fondo del mar
uno, sólo uno, por dios, era mío

Poema incluido en Donde la luz es violeta de Xánath Caraza (Mammoth Publications, 2016)