I have so much to tell
that in your absence, I tell the paper, the silence. I tell the sea.
Experiences and discoveries forbidden by science.
Censored verses. Liberties taken,
and a whole universe determined to persevere.
Let me tell you that the northern winter has been very rough
that Seasonal Affective Disorder is a real son of a bitch.
That we all know the rich will keep on winning,
that certainty, and my bitterness, are two things that don’t exist.
I tell you that my hora ingrata is no longer so ingrata
that the trees I grow inside have all kept their leaves.
That the low-hanging plants only ask for their right to grow beside you,
even in the month of December. Even in this tremendous shadow you left behind.
That, from this height, everything looks much clearer and
that honor and loyalty cannot be underestimated.
That life is so much better in three (or more) languages.
and that, yes, it is possible to think of you, and not choke.
That the big black dog who is biting my ankle
has no more than empty threats to offer.
That it’s possible to keep fighting, keep going, keep hoping
that you only live once, and there’s no going back.
Tengo tanto que contar,
que en tu ausencia, le cuento al papel, al silencio. Al mar.
Experiencias y descubrimientos prohibidos por la ciencia.
Versos censurados. Libertades revolcadas,
y un universo entero determinado a existir.
Te cuento que el invierno en el norte ha sido muy rudo-
y que la depresión estacional es un verdadero hijo-eputa.
Que todos sabemos que los ricos van a seguir ganando,
que dos cosas que no existen son la certidumbre, y mi amargura.
Te cuento que mi hora ingrata ya no es tan ingrata-
que los árboles que llevo por dentro siguen con sus hojas.
Que las plantas bajas solo piden su derecho de crecer contigo,
hasta en el mes de diciembre. Hasta en esta tremenda sombra tuya.
Que a estas alturas todo se ve mucho más claro-
y que el honor y la lealtad no se pueden subestimar.
Que la vida es cada vez más rica en tres (o más) idiomas.
y que, sí, es posible pensar en tí sin sofocar.
Que el lobo negro que está mordiendome el tobillo
no tiene más que vanas amenazas que ofrecer.
Que es posible seguir luchando, seguir felíz, seguir esperando
y que la vida es una sola, y no se puede retroceder.
___________________
Elizabeth M Castillo is a British-Mauritian poet, writer, indie-press promoter. She lives in Paris with her family and two cats, where she writes a variety of different things under a variety of pen names. In her writing Elizabeth explores themes of race & ethnicity, motherhood, womanhood, language, love, loss and grief, and a touch of magical realism. She has words in, or upcoming in Selcouth Station Press, Pollux Journal, Revista Purgante, Lanke Review, Streetcake Magazine, Fevers of the Mind Press, Melbourne Culture Corner, Epoch Press, among others. Her bilingual, debut collection “Cajoncito: Poem on Love, Loves, y Otras Locuras” is out summer 2021.