And God Made Me Woman
And God made me woman,
with long hair
the eyes
nose and mouth of a woman,
with curves
and slopes
and gentle valleys.
And hollowing a space within me,
God made me a workshop for human beings.
My nerves were woven with tenderness
and all my hormones
carefully balanced.
God composed my blood
and transfused me with it
to irrigatemy entire body;
fertile land for ideas,
dreams,
instinct.
Everything created with tenderness
soft breaths for a hammer
love for a drill,
the thousand and one things that make me woman each and every day
that make me proud to rise
every morning
and bless my sex.
I Am Full of Joy
I am full of joy,
full of life,
full of energy,
like a happy, young animal.
My blood is a magnet for nature,
heeding the call of mountains
to run wild like a deer,
carving the air,
or wandering naked through canyons
covered in grass and crumpled flowers
or mud,
may God and Man allow me to return
to my primitive state,
pure, delectable wildness,
free of malevolence,
to dust, the rib
to love for the grape leaf, for skin,
for the lamb,
to instinct.
Menstruation
I suffer from
a woman’s
“illness.”
My hormones
are in a frenzy,
I feel one
with nature.
Every month
this communion shared
between body
and soul;
feeling ruled by
the laws of nature
out of control;
my brain transformed
into womb.
From Sobre la grama (1974)
What Are You Nicaragua?
What are you
but a tiny triangle of earth
hidden in the center of the world?
What are you
but fluttering birds
mockingbirds,
hummingbirds
guardabarrancos?
What are you
but rivers roaring
carrying off smoothed and polished stones
cutting paths through mountains?
What are you
but a woman’s breasts made of earth,
smooth, pointed, and menacing?
What are you
but the song of leaves in giant trees,
green, tangled and full of doves?
What are you
but pain and dust and cries in the night,
—“women’s cries, like giving birth”—?
What are you
but a clenched fist and a bullet to bite?
What are you, Nicaragua,
to pain me so?
The Mother
She changed her clothes,
traded her skirt for pants
her shoes for work boots
her pocketbook for a backpack.
She abandons lullabies,
to sing protest songs.
She lets her hair grow wild, overcome with emotion
for the love that surrounds her.
She no longer lives solely for her children,
caring only for her own children.
Her breasts feed
thousands of hungry mouths.
She is mother to neglected children
kids playing trompo on dusty sidewalks.
She gives birth to herself
feeling—at times—
unable to shoulder so much love
thinking of her own flesh and blood
—faraway and alone—
crying for her at night in vain
while she answers other cries,
many cries,
but always thinking of the cry from her own flesh
which is one more cry in this great crying of the pueblo that
calls out to her
and that tears even her own children
from her arms.
From Línea de fuego (1978).
Eve Warns about Apples
I will remain in your heart,
to give you many years of pleasure.
Carlos Martínez Rivas
With godlike powers
—omnipotent centaur—
you removed me from the curved rib of my world
embarking me on a quest for your promised land,
the first season of paradise.
I left everything behind.
I failed to hear the cautionary advice
because in the entire Universe of my blindness
only you glowed bright
sun against the darkness.
And thus,
just as Eve,
I bit the apple;
I tried to build a home for us to share,
to have children to multiply our newfound land.
But, later,
you could only offer
hunting, lions,
desire for solitude,
and callous awakenings.
I was left with nothing more that rushed encounters,
as you took my body for pleasure,
hasty discharge of tenderness,
and then,
time after time, abandonment
ripping my dream to shreds,
filling the cup of honey so faithfully offered
with tears.
I was worn like a river stone.
You passed over my moaning,
my crying,
abandoning me in the jungle of your confusion
in the dark, unable to build a fire to stave off the cold,
or to follow the path of your shadow.
That is why one day,
one final time, I saw
your silhouette against the bedroom’s red wall
where I experienced more anger than tenderness
and I bid you farewell
from the burning depth of my gut,
from the river of lava flowing through my heart.
I did not take anything with me
because nothing of yours was mine
—you never gave me ownership of your things—
and you were no longer mine
the same way that—abruptly—
trees are chopped down
torn, shredded,
already dead,
the pulp of memory,
material to make into verses.
You were my God
and also like Adam,
impregnating me with fruits and malinche trees,
poems and buds,
bouquets of inexplicable incomprehension.
But never again
will this Eve see mirages of paradise
or bite sweet and dangerous apples,
arrogant,
vain,
useless
for love.
From Truenos y arcoíris (1982).
Nicaragua
So often I have tried to forget you
as if you were one of those cruel lovers who slams
the door in your face
or one of those who the more you love them
the more they ignore you
but nothing I do makes a difference
lush green, rain, and wind come
papers swirling down the street
the oak showering its flowers like silken hulls on sidewalks
the young boy who carries a cleaning rag
and a smile that breaks and transcends poverty
dusk settles over the volcano’s pointed outline in the distance
clouds spilling red and purple paint into the sky
people’s lively, playful, crude way of speaking
and all my cursing and complaining about you falls apart
and love wells up inside me like horses galloping in my chest
and I contemplate you covered in kapoks and Cortez trees
madrone, mahogany, and palm trees
and I love you homeland of my dreams and my sorrows
and I take you with me to secretly wash away your stains
to whisper hope to you
and promise you remedies and charms to protect you.
I defer to words because they are my life’s mortar
and it is through words that I imagine you again and again reborn
magnificent, stripped of all the worms that eat away at your essence.
From your hair I pluck out those who sell, steal, and abuse you
I tell you stories at the edge of my pillow
I shelter you and cover your eyes
so you won’t see the tyrants coming to chop off your head.
Home
Land
I will perish
My anguish will cease
but you will remain
rooted in this space
sheltering my memories
and my bones.
From En la avanzada juventud (2013)
Advice for Strong Women
If you are a strong woman
protect yourself from the predators that would
eat your heart for lunch.
They don costumes from every carnival on Earth:
They come disguised as guilt, as opportunities, as
the price you have to pay.
They rummage through your soul; their gazes and their cries
drilling to the depths of the magma of your essence
not seeking enlightenment in your fire
but to extinguish your passion
the wisdom of your dreams.
If you are a strong woman
know that the air you breathe
carries parasites, hornets,
minuscule insects that want to inhabit your blood
and feed on everything about you that is noble and solid.
Do not abandon compassion, but fear anything that would force you
to give up your voice, to hide who you are,
everything that diminishes you
promising you Paradise on Earth in exchange for
a complaisant smile.
If you are a strong woman
prepare for battle:
learn to be alone
to sleep in total darkness without fear
to not expect anyone to throw you a line in a howling storm
to swim upstream.
Educate yourself in the crafts of reason and intellect.
Read, love yourself, build your castle
Surround it with a deep moat
but open its doors and windows wide.
It is paramount for you to cultivate great friendships
So those close to you who love you know what you stand for
for you to build a raging bonfire in the center of your
room to ignite
a blazing furnace and keep your dreams
always simmering.
If you are a strong woman
shelter yourself with words and trees
and invoke the memory of ancient women.
Understand that you are a magnetic field
rusty nails will race towards you
so will the lethal corrosion from every shipwreck.
Give shelter but shelter yourself first.
Keep your distance.
Grow your strength. Care for yourself.
Enshrine your power
Defend it.
Do it for yourself.
I ask you on behalf of all women.
From El pez rojo que nada en el pecho (2020).
I Have Nowhere to Live
I have nowhere to live.
I chose the word.
My books were left behind.
My home. The garden, its hummingbirds,
The massive palms
named Bismarck
for their imposing presence.
I have no place to live.
I chose the word,
To speak for those who are silenced,
To understand a rage
That nothing can appease.
Every door is shut.
I left the white sofas,
The terrace, the dancing volcanoes in the distance,
The lake’s phosphorescent skin,
Night revealing the city’s multicolored lights
I left carrying my words under my arm.
They are my crime, my sin.
Not even God could force me to recant.
My dogs, Macondo and Caramelo, left behind.
The sweet shape of their faces,
their love from nose to tail.
My bed with its mosquito net,
the place to close my eyes
and imagine a world transformed
according to my wishes.
It was not to be. It was not to be.
I want to speak the future now,
to speak my heart,
throw up revulsion and disgust.
My clothes idle in the closet,
My shoes. The landscape of my days and nights,
The sofa where I write,
The windows.
I have taken to the streets with my words.
I embrace them, I choose them.
I am free,
Even if I have nothing.
The Smell of Rain in Madrid
I look up from the book I am reading
hidden from the dragon’s fiery breath
that fills the city.
The tree outside my window,
beside its lamppost sibling,
waves its arms joyfully.
I sensed something. The sun going dark,
the sound of rain on asphalt,
I set my book down to jump up
and open the window door
to the balconette.
There is a moment of dread.
I remember Managua and its afternoon rains,
the smell of wet earth.
If I open the door, will the rain in Madrid smell the same?
Will that smell be exiled from my life?
There is a hidden garden in my soul
where I treasure the earthy smell of rain
and the drumming of thunder.
I hesitate to approach the balconette door,
but in the end I am brave. I open it.
Cars go by splashing water below,
the street is strewn with tiny flowers from trees
after the shower.
The smell rises. The smell.
Earthy, intense.
I am saved.
Previously unpublished poems (2021-2023) from the anthology Parir el alba,
in honor of the thirty-second Reina Sofía Ibero-American Poetry Prize
Translated by Stacey Alba Skar-Hawkins
