Emily Granados (Mexico)
Emily Granados (Mexico, 1994). She studied Hispanic Language and Literatures at UNAM, is an actress, and an oral narrator. She is currently a Middle School teacher.
Heated smoky eyes
unfold a slight ancestral ray
of suns past and afternoons consumed.
Voices composed of pure signifier
sounds bubbling in the flat windows
ears charred by kisses,
those who want to hear, hear!
a torrent of sun comes out wet from his mouth
and they suck the dust like trans-oceanic octopuses.
The city of palaces in compasses without wind
give up a blunt goodbye
without eloquent remorse
with sex and disgust and everything,
In the city, world of rooms
the loves of a moon of stairs and stumbling
attached to sheets in laundries
they are purified,
one step of crowds, they fade
nobody saw them pass
The night walks,
the world inhabited by cities
mosaic of eyes sprayed with neon light
between unique bodies and gestures,
each with lies in
the mouth, with masks and luck,
an accompanied walk.
We got off the unsafe sidewalks
what are they all,
some hours it discriminates
and we are in a hurry,
to arrive, to be safe
deep in the known
save the walkers
we are all wandering
at a certain time of night
after all, no one is immune,
walk to the outskirts
In the distance,
to leave or return
those from there defend their own
all cities look alike
all cities are different
but people are the same
that’s why they say that the moon
observes the same way and
lights up all the roads
knows all the stories
of the same face …
because we are all under the same escape
but in custom showcases.
The bodies are graspable memory of what one does not want to see,
the silence is sharp, cruel.
Far from memory nothing is possible,
although the body is a watchword,
graphic full of intention
a subdued curve, the universal complaint
the back and the eyes of the world warn: nothing,
it’s pure chance and movement,
the monster time that twists everything.
There are among so many, one,
the coincidence is wonderful,
eternity and disability will not be a matter of time
although that is actually a momentary and loving idea.
We turn around the irrevocable comisco clock,
the body makes us expire in a single puff
the last move, the body explodes the wanderings
mortuary respite, the cycle is fulfilled,
with the same complaints, the same revolutions,
with the same enveloping sadness
that identifies us all, in the same feeling
with different body.
Translated from Spanish to English by Ricardo Plata