Editor’s Note: The Indigenous Literature section of this issue is made up of texts from the new book Daughters of Latin America: An International Anthology of Writing by Latine Women, published by Amistad (an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers) and edited by Sandra Guzmán. This anthology includes the work of many writers and translators who have contributed to LALT, and we are happy to share these excerpts with our readers. Click here to purchase the book.
Xneza ni ruuya’do’
Ana panda bieque guluaa ique’ ndaani’ ruba
ti cadi gusiaandacabe naa ya’.
Naga’chi’ ritahua’ gueta naxubi ruaa
ti guichagana’ya’ nguiiu yooxho’.
Gudxite’ xubaana’ bi’cu’ ne biziide’ gusiguiee’.
Xa’na’ mexa’ bidó’ ritahua’ dxita bigu bidxi
de ra bicuidxe’ guidiruaa’.
So’pe’ bicaa xiguidxa’ tiniyaala xtinne’ ne binite’
lade saa xhiame.
Guirá xquendaxheela’ biaba nisaguie
runi bindiee’ ndaani’ guisu guendaró.
Bichuuga’ guielua’ ne ti gudxíu ne bixuxhe’ lu xtuí.
Paraa chi guidxiñu’ naa ya’ pa guirá gueela’
rugaanda’ ti ludoo aju ra guse’ ne ti gamixa’ dxa’ zidi,
xti’ xa xtiua’ya’, bisiaca xiiñi’ca gunaa benda.
A Seer’s Path
How many times did I stick my head into the basket’s heart
so that they wouldn’t forget me.
In my hiding place I ate warped tortillas
so I’d marry an old man.
I played with the dog’s tail and became a liar.
Beneath our household altar I ate a brittle turtle egg
that dried out my lips.
A buzzard cast a spell on my slingshot when I lost myself in the dance
of his flight.
It rained at all my weddings because I licked the cooking pot clean
ahead of time.
I crossed two knives over my eyes
to slice up the eye of shame.
How could you ever approach me if every night
I hung a string of garlic in my bedroom
and in my window a shirt full of salt,
from my uncle, who got mermaids pregnant.
Qui chigusiandu’ lubá’ naca beenda yaniñee ca dxi gucu’ ba’du’
Zabe lii xiixa lá?
Xa badudxaaapa’ huiini’ guxubiná ti bidxiña
xa’na’ bacaanda’ xiñá’ rini sti’ yaga biidxi qué
napa ti ngolaxiñe cayoyaa neza rini cuxooñe’ ladi.
Ti duuba’ na’si’ ndaani’ xhaba
nutaaguna’ nisa sidi laa.
Dxi gúca’ ba’du’ nabé guyuladxe’ saya’ ndaani’ beñe
jñiaa ruquii guiiña’ ruguu lade bicuini ñee’
ti gusianda ra gucheza beñe,
nganga ca dxi guiruti qui nuguu bia’ naa
purti binni xquidxe’ tobisi diidxa’ guní’ ne ca za.
Zabe lii xti’ diidxa’ lá?
gunaxhie’ lii purti qui ninalú’ ñananeu bandá’
biluí’ bizé xtine lii
ne guyelu’ ndaani’ yoo ra ga’chi’ xquipe’
bie’nu’ xiñee bichaa gúca’ stobi
binibia’lu’ tu naa ne laaca gunnu’ zanda chu’
guendanayeche ra naxhii.
Na lu’:
Gudxi naa xi saa bisiasi ne cabe lii
ya, gunie’:
Nuu jmá diidxa’ naca beenda’
galaa deche’ caní’ huahua’,
ma giruti rinié niá’,
ma bisiaanda’ diidxa’ guní’ ca ni qui ñapa diidxa’,
ma bilué tu naa,
ma bixhiaya’ lua’.
Bandá’ xtine riní’ ne guirá ni ma guti
bi bixhele’ ca xpiidxe’.
Ne dxi biluuza xcú bisuhua necabe naa
nisi guzaya’ ne ma qui ñuu dxi nudxigueta lua’.
Don’t Forget the Vine Turned Serpent Wrapped Around Your Infant Heel
Can I tell you something?
all that’s left of that innocent creature who caressed
a deer beneath the almond tree’s darkening shadow
is a scorpion that bites her veins.
A mark plastered on her clothing
trapped in brackish water.
When I was a girl
I loved to walk in the mud,
my mother roasted chilies and placed them between my toes
to heal my wounds.
In those days I had no memory of time
because my people spoke with the clouds.
I’ll tell you one thing more:
I loved you because you weren’t content with my image
in the well and you went to my umbilical home
you understood why I changed and became someone else.
You knew me as I was and that among so many brambles there could also be happiness.
You said:
Tell me what lullabies sang you to sleep.
Yes, I said:
There are many serpent words upon my back,
but I no longer speak with anyone,
I stopped speaking the language of the silent,
I have revealed my sign,
I have erased my face.
My portrait speaks with all the dead,
the wind has winnowed my seeds.
When my root went crack
I started walking without looking back.
Yeniá’ yaga naga’xti’ ca xoidaane’ ra cayaba nanda
Deche gudxilayú daapa xubaguí ique lagaca’
neca reeche xtuxhu biaani’ da’gu’ lú guiba’.
Gasti naca, rarí nuaa’,
bedané mani’ bizidanda xtine’ naa.
Laaca naa nga jñaa ne bixhoze’
rizayaniacá’ lidxe’
ne ratiisi gabiá guxatañee’
tobilucha xiiñe’ naa.
I Wore My Huipil’s Fronds into Winter
On the other side of the world they have snow on their eyelids.
Even though the lights shine bright, the sky shuts down.
No matter, here I am,
my nanny brought me. I am my own family
and whatever hell I may land in
I am my only daughter.
