Maria Montero translated by Julia Guez
María Montero is a poet, essayist and designer working in San José, Costa Rica. She has written two collections of poetry: El juego conquistado which was awarded the Premio de Joven Creación and La mano suicida. Her most recent collection of essays, “semblanzas” and profiles is entitled fieras domésticas. Montero has also collaborated with the photographer, José Diaz, to curate and introduce the art book, Vanguardia popular. Her work has been anthologized both nationally and internationally in Relatos de mujeres, Indómitas voces -100 años de poesía femenina costarricense, Martes de poesía en el cuartel de la boca del monte, Lunadas poéticas: poesía costarricense actual and, finally, Sostener la palabra: Antología de poesía costarricense contemporánea. She has just completed a series of prints called Grandes Sobras del Feminismo Sucio for the Biblioteca Textil Centroamericana. Montero lives with her three children in Escazú. This is the first time her work has been translated from Spanish to English.
Julia Guez is the author of In an Invisible Glass Case Which Is Also a Frame (Four Way Books, 2019). Her poetry, prose and translations have appeared in Poetry, Guernica, The Guardian, Kenyon Review, PEN Poetry Series and the Brooklyn Rail. Guez has been awarded the Discovery /Boston Review Poetry Prize, a Fulbright Fellowship and the John Frederick Nims Memorial Prize for Translation. She teaches creative writing at Rutgers, as well as NYU, and works at Teach For America New York. Guez lives in Brooklyn and online at www.juliaguez.net.
Itinerario
Iba hacia España
y llegué a Cuba.
Iba hacia Jorge
y llegué a Juan.
Iba hacia las letras
y llegué al embarazo.
Iba a dormir
pero aquí estoy.
Reconozco que entre mis virtudes
nunca se destacó la puntería.
Itinerary
I was going to Spain
and ended up in Cuba.
I was going for Jorge
and ended up with Juan.
I was going into literature
and ended up pregnant.
I was going to sleep
but here I am.
For all my virtues, fair to say
I never had good aim.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Vieja fotografía
La que escribe su vida en las paredes
con lápiz de cejas
pintura de labios
o cualquier despojo que aparezca en el bolso.
La que espera un milagro en la ventana del cuarto,
atenta a los sonidos
de una reja podrida
por la lluvia y la broncas.
La que rasga las sábanas con la punta del pie
y hace hoyitos para escapar a donde no hay salida.
Antes y después del coito.
La que duerme sin tener sueño
o se hace la dormida para estar más sola.
La que entierra sus palabras porque quiere
y también porque no quiere.
A esa tonta
la conozco de antes.
Old Photograph
The one who has written her life on walls
with eyebrow pencil
lipstick
or whatever accoutrement may turn up in her purse.
The one who waits by the window in her room hoping
for a miracle,
attentive to the sound
of a rotten fence
rain and arguments have ruined.
The one who claws at the sheets with her toenails,
tearing tiny holes to escape
through to a place where there’s no way out.
Before and after intercourse.
The one who sleeps even when she’s not tired,
who forces herself to fall asleep to be more alone.
The one who buries her words because she wants to
and also because
that’s not what she wants at all.
I have known that idiot
a long time now.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Luz roja
Si mis hijas no estuvieran
pondría boleros
y una luz roja en la puerta.
Pero, que va, ya no me queda ese vestido.
Red Light
If my daughters weren’t around
I’d put boleros on
and hang a red light out front.
No way does that dress still fit.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Paisaje
Mientras camino por la ciudad
yo tampoco llevo zapatos
y voy con la esperanza
de no ser la voz de nadie.
No quiero escuchar ni ver
ni ser el perfume que imprime las calles
de una nostalgia tan dificil.
Mi lengua arrastra el filo de otra latitud,
el sabor de una cicatriz,
y sabe que su gracia
sólo habita en la intimidad
de un dolor más grande.
Mientras camino por la ciudad
sé que no soy nada
y sólo lanzo mis palabras
como quien lanza una botella
al otro lado del muro.
Landscape
While walking through the city
I don’t even wear
shoes and travel with the sole hope
of not having to speak on anyone’s behalf.
I don’t want to see or hear or be
the scent imprinting these
streets with a nostalgia that’s so hard to bear.
My tongue drags itself along the edge of another
latitude and knows the taste of scar-tissue,
knowing grace will only reside
in the privacy
of a much greater pain.
While walking through the city
I know I am nothing
and only toss these words around
like someone tossing a bottle
onto the other side of this wall.