the Dead
by marcos Valerio Cisfuentes Reyes
translation by willy palomo

I first met death at four-years-old with Atol,
my little chick
that night the poor guy must have dreamt
about the little mountain of grain in my pudgy hand
and by morning he had forgotten how to open his eyes
and chirp the five letters of my name.

They told me to dig a hole in the earth
and my pudgy hands
made it very clear as a I laid him to rest
that they would still be here when he chose to return.

He won’t come back, they told me
he went to heaven
and that was the first time my childhood eyes
stared up at the heavens with hatred

Years passed and death has continued to visit me
              a grandmother, the embroider of stories
                            a grandfather inhabited by suspicious
              silences
                                           my neighbor and classmate at
                             school
                                                          our dissident
                                           sister 

395 women in one semester.