“The blood of my ancestors / called me with a pistol / at the hand of my father / whispering goodbye.”Tweet
Architect: Kidneys with Lupus
I drive a big yellow taxi. A fast car. An evil beauty of piss color and sunflower bloom. I confess I am a waiting room. A halfway house. A floating blood bank off the East Andes. I am radioactive. I am the “be still.” The science, the flicker jubilee and haze of Chernobyl. I am the lighthouse storm, the elastic shelter. The little light fetish of sparrow constellations.
The History of My Father’s Pain
“we all knew.”
the clock man of the island was an SS officer the cries of Himmler gripped in the hand of God turning counter clockwise blood careening in gravity body suspended upside down tolling safe in Bayamon the clock man, the minute hand, repairing my grandmother’s clock flamboyan trees, blooms of blood suns, touching the tight lipped shutters of the window sounding sounding the grandfather clock tolling tolling the moon above the cabin of grandmother’s clock licking the lingua of the pendula of God. “Todos sabimos.” 🔾 “The sound was old and beautiful” I sometimes wonder if we pay for our secrets, my grandmother’s father hidden in a wall during a reaping, his brother walked to a cliff by nationalists I spit tomato vines thru a parting in the kitchen shutters, my grandmother, my mamá, tasting the escabeche with a wooden spoon lips rouged the clock tolls once for every hour the shoreline breaks with a body along Castillo del Morro the clock tolls eleven times and each time she meditates on the dismemberment by the minute man to find the silenced toll. “El sonido era antiguo y bella.” 🔾 “No, he was a very nice and secluded man with his windows closed with little light coming in.” My father and grandfather knocked on the cabin door, scalloped feet and head shouldered, the tongue of gold silenced my mamá had told them tHe mInuTe MAN answered and led them thru, father wandered from grandfather clock a door open hidden a watch man on the wall weightless, eagle perched on swastika, skull tolling below rim of a shoddy uniform, braids for slaughters earned mounted on the shoulder. lightning on hat on sleeve on hilt. The photos. The awards. The cries. 🔾 “I will kiss you with my hands open.” El Moro rising from the chest of my grandmother port of entry swollen with merchant cells chemicals whistling gates open constellation of sores waxing crescent shores Spanish tongue de la mamá Zavala, Capella at the tolling uvula licking the moon no me besas. mis labios please you are beautiful this is Hydra I will wash with my lips my mother constellation “Te beso con mis manos abiertos.” 🔾 The grandfather clock repaired, blood let of minutes, licked its last night when mamá died, gasping for air, father at the foot, grandfather at the head, shouldering the last toll she sang my name at the hour. 🔾 The father clock, the clock, the blood of my ancestors, called me with a pistol, at the hand of my father, whispering “goodbye,” whispering revive, revive the clock, the toll, the secret of the blood let minute.
Bianca Viñas is a graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts Writing and Publishing Program. Her debut anthology, Life Lines: Rewriting Lives from Inside Out, a collection of short stories and essays by incarcerated women, is set for release with Green Writers Press in Summer 2019. Bianca is currently completing her first novel, a hybrid work of poetry, medical research and narrative prose. She edits novels and is on staff at Hunger Mountain Magazine. Bianca lives in a studio in Montpelier, Vermont near her writing family.
Featured image: KELLEPICS (Pixabay)