Algunos versos

JUANA

Again. She had to open her legs so that he could come in, she didn't want another beating, so she ignored the burning sensation or the awkward feeling of getting a piece of dried flesh inside her vagina.

There were no kisses, that stopped years ago, he was always late getting home, his tongue was a jumble of cheap rum and beer. With calloused fingers he touched her breasts, breasts that had fed three children with translucent milk and two others who did not drink a single drop because they were expelled from the cervix by the deadly impulse of the other.

She would close her eyes, she didn't like to see that greasy body on top of her, those legs that moved like those of a kicking horse, and he would curse because he hated her dryness. He didn't care, he stuck his fingers inside believing that this would bring the ocean that had retreated from the beach years ago. He would push, and push and push. He would get up furiously and push again. Her breasts ended up bruised from being squeezed so much as if they were a piece of lean meat. Telling him to stop was worse, he would lash out with more strength.

"Tell me to stop, tell me to stop." He would keep on pushing.

"Tell me to stop, tell me to stop." He would bite her.

"Tell me to stop, tell me to stop." He would hit her in the belly, he would squeeze her pelvis, flip her over and get inside.

The pillow by then was already wet from the sea of tears that she had to hide. If she cried it was worse.

When he let go off of her, her body was like insipid jelly, from not knowing how to run away or resist, he would get up with a beastly smile on his face and shout:

"That's right. Shit. Shit. Shit. You are my shit." And he fell over her body exhausted.

As soon as he fell asleep, she would get up to the bathroom, sometimes a little bit of blood would drip between her legs, at other times, just a milky fluid would come out. She had to go back to bed, or he would wake up, and she didn't want the little ones to find out that again, he had hit her over her lower belly, her chest, her childhood, her life.

In those moments she always thought about turning on the gas and curl up next to his children and be surrounded by a sweet death, but they knew nothing, they would wake up in the morning, laugh and go to school to learn new words.

"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"

"My mom spoils me, my mom loves me,"

That’s what she read in of her child's notebook one night when she almost lit up the stove one last time. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She wrote over her skin.

Del libro : Aquellas mujeres en Miniatura

Ao Relento - A la intemperie

A la intemperie, de Eliana Maldonado Cano Prólogo: Luis Fernando Cuartas Traducción, fotografía de la portada y serie fotográfica: Floriano Martins Edición, diseño y revisión: Elys Regina Zils Año de publicación: 2025 Edición: 1ª Páginas: 135 A la intemperie, de Eliana Maldonado Cano, reúne poemas que conforman un mosaico de la existencia migrante. Cada verso expone un cuerpo vulnerable a la violencia, una voz que intenta habitar lenguas en ruina, una memoria marcada por grie

Atlas lírico de América Latina

https://revistaacrobata.com.br/florianomartin/atlas-lirico-da-america-hispanica/7-poemas-de-eliana-maldonado-cano-colombia-1978/?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR59kM08FIhaF-KCNsOO5YyAUEF-GNJsbZYa1pYv6LhJE-yJ8wKiO0aJRhlaAQ_aem_EuPu9ZPpIXVJZawtew-0Mg

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Estoy habitada por un grito,

voz cansada que desea el acto atento.

Me posee en las noches calmas, y aturde

las vísceras que a esa hora descansan de mí.

Estoy habitada por la queja, que ronronea

con la gata y se lame las heridas.

La queja, la pobrecita queja, insaciable, inamovible.

Cinco mil, leo hoy en la internet, noventa

más que ayer, ¿pero eso acaso significa

algo si todos los míos siguen aquí?

Vuelve pronto

Una vez que se publiquen entradas, las verás aquí.

Posteadp recientemente

Traigo arqueada la espalda.

Me pesa el hijo que se fue una mañana sin sol,

sin saludar, sin aferrarse, sin elegirme.

Solo marchó al mundo de abajo para

seguir jugando con las almas

que no llegaron a nombrarse.

Quizá fue mejor así, este aire infecto

le habría carcomido las entrañas.

Para qué traerlo a un mundo en

el que el otro es amenaza.

Se marchó con buen viento y

buena mar le digo al aire,

mientras abrazo el espacio

vacío de mi abdomen.

NO ES ÍTACA

Allí los pensamientos rebotan,
las palabras rebotan.
Decir: madre, sáname, cúrame,
carece de sentido.
Los espíritus que reposan en las habitaciones,
esperan en vano que las quejas subviertan el silencio.
Como bolas de goma rebotan los te quiero,
los te quise,
los te espero.
Anoche mirando a través
de sus ojos de bruma le dije que se fuera.
Sonrió.
Las grietas
de la casa se abrieron
por el estruendo de mi voz.