Statue of Liberty Covered in Hamburgers (Estatua de la Libertad recubierta de hamburguesas). Courtesy of Marta Minujín & Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.
I speak to the dead
without noticing.
Not anymore, any
way.
I studied who,
where, when.
Who then.
I speak to the dead
until then.
I spent mornings
following cranes
and glass panes,
up into
rooms that would live
so many stories up
up up.
Up, the details
of monument lost—
I studied the big bang, and so
the story goes.
What then.
And so,
the story must go—
*
I was born after
democracy, the writer
born from me.
I knew the Word, then
Scripture.
I learned history
from dusting off
my World’s stories.
My father’s father
came over by boat,
spent a life by
hand-lettering.
*
I translate.
Story goes.
When then.
Someday, my mind
will follow
exceptionally blank.
*
Someday, my house will split
into two
separate thoughts.
I cannot remember the last time
I’ve heard my name
in its correct
cruel accent.
It’s been years since I’ve vanished.
*
A story can split.
We woke up in a New World—
my husband’s first.
Having the memory of airport
carpets under my feet,
I translate.
[Something happened here]
I knew the Word, and then
the story.
Something happens here
*
Who are you?
My father, as a boy,
once checked the gas
in their small kitchen
by bringing a match
to the burners.
Another, he brought
the back of a pickaxe
to his brow.
My father was caught
in flight.
*
When then.
As a child,
I bit.
I wrote.
I did.
I was.
*
I learned the story
as Everyone asked me to.
For years,
I studied the scripture,
the men and monuments—
learned brawls
as acts of god.
It’s a holy place
that no one visits.
My father’s father
never came over by boat.
Where he was born,
his dreams stayed.
*
We’re in a Blue State
gone Red,
a place I never thought
I would visit.
My husband says
I haven’t laughed in days.
A story can act
in the manner of god.
Have you heard this one before?
It’s been years
since I’ve heard
my cruel name,
right.
Since it mattered.
*
Still in bed,
in a world of post-truth,
a State of Mind gone Heart—
I was born after democracy,
post-story,
history on trial.
I was born re-writing
the story
once it mattered.
*
My Father brought his
daughters
to a United State—
pinned captain wings
on their denim jackets.
I fold into my learnings.
His daughters will
bear the unity.
Why then.
*
As a young man, he joined the Line.
Made machines, then sold machines.
My mother married him young,
joined the Line,
grew stones and put her daughters
to sleep for years, calling them
mi cielo
*
Years later,
I follow the architecture,
visit the monuments.
A Writer writes home,
then visits home.
Distance undoes,
if it does anything.
I spend days walking around
an old neighborhood,
stop at nothing—
distance undoes
makes me holy again.
*
My mother learned Unity
before she learned the language.
There was nothing, until
she broke the word.
Spiik-een—spiik-een
Spiik! Spiik! Spiik!
*
I drank all of it.
I ate the book.
I, as in—ay she wails.
I never cared to visit.
*
My father and his dead father
lean into the building—
(he visits the ashes when
he visits on business)
dead of night in the middle
of Nowhere
I remember
a place of reason
and laugh
*
I learned reasoning
between
Here and Not Here
the threads of layovers and port-cities
wing: the act or manner of flying (takes wing)
aging in post-city, collecting story
*
Outside the old school
in the old neighborhood,
a Writer stops at nothing.
A voice can split.
I meet with family,
stop only when—
You are your mother’s daughter,
we knew you from a block away.
Who then.
*
It took years before
my mother learned the language,
and then taught her language
to would-be-chefs, would-be-more
at hospitality school.
A Writer remembers
wing: wherever we wake, we take with us
throws her hands
up toward the sky
mi cielo
*
Please, pass the wine.
Please, let me get that for you.
Excuse me; it’s been a while.
Welcome back, Ms., business or pleasure?
How do you say—
How do you say—
How do you say—
*
My Father lost his father
but not.
A funeral was planned
half a world away
in the dead of night
the middle of nowhere
[Nothing happens here]
half a world away
*
A matter of faith may lose its Father.
Our Father. Our Father. Our Father.
The Word can split.
My father never learned
to lose his father.
[Nothing happens here]
Somewhere over the ocean, my story
split in two.
*
So, it goes.
A matter of money
may lose its country;
the House can split.
I learned Men built
this country on the backs
of Men. I learn
the same Men
now lost their homes.
A story will grow.
I learn the world came from nothing.
When the plane touches down
after eleven hours, I promise
I never left.
*
Who are you?
Speak ghost, speak!
I married a man at an Inn,
where a woman once
announced to seek the White House.
We drank beers
at The Palace
for months before.
A man who runs hotel chains
became president
promising
to secure borders.
I study the monuments.
There is a rock
in my stomach
which continues to grow.
*
Someday, my mind will go—
I will know doors.
A Father buries his father.
Forgets cielo.
*
My husband married me
in one language.
When I hear a full joke
for the first time,
I miss the end-line.
When my husband, loving me,
asks if I got it,
I look down at my hands.
*
Here, the dead
don’t die.
Long-distance and post-truth—
the world came from nothing.
Nothing can happen.
When the phone rings
in the middle of the night
from halfway around the world
the world continues.
Not Here,
the dead collect.
*
Not Here,
the dead collect.
Not Here,
the dead collect.
Not Here,
the dead collect.
*
The new President on business,
promises,
to secure borders.
My father travels on business,
visits the ashes
of our story,
promises—
I look down at my hands.
*
The Word grows holy.
The World goes up in flames.
I look down at my hands.
Half a world away,
video messages
say goodbye, send Last Words,
ask
Father, why have you forsaken me?
From half a world away,
the messages shine in our hands,
always shine.
*
My mother’s mother asks her everyday
when she is coming home for dinner.
Wherever we wake, we take with us—
the phone rings in the First World,
from the Third World—
she calls for her dead husband.
*
The American dream splits.
First the story, then dream.
First dreams, then stops sleeping.
Where then.
We are half a world away,
a place I never thought
to settle.
My sister announces
she will pursue the Arts—
I look down at my hands.
*
My husband finishes the joke,
has married my story.
We fear the House,
and more than that,
stepping outside it.
*
What have I, ay ay ay
done. I, ay ay ay
have done nothing.
Spiik g-ohst spiik!
*
Our Father,
Who Art
we make ourselves holy
we wake up, knowing.
*
Who Arts When
My daughter will know
her acts of history,
the characters.
She will bury me close by.
When the time comes
for her to remember
the last few words,
to pursue,
above all—
as Everyone says,
she will do better
than I.
*
My father and mother married young,
had a dream
split the story.
The House has spoken.
Messages continue
to light up in our hands,
Alas Alas Alas
She will do better than I.
*
Who Arts then.
A man may keep his head,
A woman may keep her story.
She will be better—
I never thought I, ay ay ay,
would ask for faith—
a world may change overnight.
It’s only ours—
she will be better.
Canta y no llores
*
The Writer will bury—
a father will come over by boat.
(Shine, ghost, shine.)
Alas, the story grows
one day to bear unity.
*
I return
between Here and Not Here
bound to story in glass house
bound to monument
Who Art
Who Art
Who Art
Vanishing ends
at the mouth
❂
FLORENCIA VARELA is the author of The Returns (Spuyten Duyvil Publishing, 2020) and the chapbook Outside of Sleep (Dancing Girl Press, 2012). Previously her work has appeared in journals such as Drunken Boat, Painted Bride Quarterly, Western Humanities Review, jubilat, Washington Square Journal, Gulf Coast, Phantom Limb, and Vinyl, among others. She currently works on documentary impact campaigns and impact education initiatives, and is a board member of the organization The Future of Film is Female. She was born and raised in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and she and her family currently live in the Hudson Valley.