This poem is part of Migrant Women Press’s 16 days of activism against gender-based violence.
Photo by Cris Trung on @Unsplash
Antes de saír pola porta da casa materna,
nomear.
Sofá
cadros
gravadora
gato.
Reter o aire
Retelos na memoria.
Cociña
floreiro
cadeiras
irmá
Acariñalos coa mirada
desaprendelos
despedirme da infancia cada vez
cruzar o limiar
como se fose a última.
Agora só fican retrincos.
Non lembro a cor do sofá
o cheiro do guiso
nin o son do miau.
Esquezo o tipo de flores
o ángulo da raiola proxectada na parede
o tacto da súa man.
Migrar é olvidar os detalles
mais espertar suando
do pesadelo da guerra sobre o corpo
da marca do terror que non te solta
aínda despois de tanto tempo.
Sara Guerrero Alfaro
Barcelona, 2023
Dream
Before leaving the door of the mother’s house,
name.
Sofa
painting
stereo
cat.
Retain the air
Retain them in memory.
kitchen
flower pot
chairs
sister.
Caress them with the gaze
unlearn them
say goodbye to childhood every time
cross the threshold
as if it were the last.
Now there’s only scraps left.
I can’t remember the color of the sofa
the smell of stew
nor the sound of the meow.
I forget the type of flowers
the angle of the light ray projected on the wall
the touch of her hand.
To migrate means forgetting the details
but waking up sweating
from the nightmare of battle over the body
from the mark of terror that won’t let you go
even after so long.
Sara Guerrero Alfaro is a Mexican writer and performing artist. Her literary work focuses on migratory processes, personal narrative and the crossing of languages. She developed a research project on the writing of migrant women in Spain.
