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Image by Daniel Santiagø

SEPSCENDENCE

david estringel

I ALWAYS REMEMBER DIALING

A payphone—

those ancient, now extinct relics found

on almost every calle street corner; some

had booths but usually they hung

on walls outside of supermarkets,

drugstores and malls; before cells

and smart Apple phones, we would

take our loose change and call our friends,

lovers and familia members. And sometimes

 

with no quarters—

I would try calling mi Mami; I recall

her number would ring, and she would

answer saying A-lo! While trying

to speak into the receiver, 

my voice was blocked—

with no quarters you could dial

someone but they could never

hear you. When I want to talk to her

 

this is what it feels like—

1987 and I am redialing her phone

number. She picks up and says

mi nombre as I try to speak,

yelling, Mami, it’s me, su hijo,

but she can never hear me. This

is when I wake up with a sore

throat always hoping maybe

 

I can go back—

but then I realize

there is no payphone.

I sit up breathing panicky,

grasping the nightmare

like a fever, sweating,

I awaken to mi Mami still

muerta. There was no call,

I just keep replaying her voice:

hearing mi Mami, recalling—

I can never again answer


her ringing inside my head

HOW DOES ONE SLEEP UNDER A FREEWAY UNDERPASS?

Hearing so many people

exiting above, feeling each

tire, wheels’ rubber burning

the scent inside your nose,

running over you, never

can you truly doze off and dream,

shivering inside tent

makeshift, eyes restless,

always fantasizing yourself

inside one of those lanes

changing cars, but there

are no breaks for the traffic

in your head, replaying

no map quest to tell you

do not enter, wrong way

street, sputtering—

your hazard eyes fever red

flashing awake, remembering

all the ways you ended

up stranded, hoping

the dead-end turns you

made will magically speed

pedal (but never meddle)

away, still—you always idle,

wake up daydreaming, no use

signaling, even your eyes

burning with exhaust know—

there is no exit.

I SAW YOU IN MIS SUEÑOS LAST NIGHT.

Fuego
en mis pulmones
y venas envenenadas,
desvanecimiento
en (a blanco)
out (a negro),
Veo el ojo de Dios
inquebrantable
frío
contra el vacío acogedor
de tapas cerradas ...
…¿ese sueño?
¿Está vigilando?
¿Solicitando el préstamo?

Siempre asistiendo
Nunca
finalizando,
Su reloj, sin vacilar,
allí
entre el velo
hasta las sombras
de ángeles, sin alas
blanco
contra el resplandor de

soles artificiales, despiertame
espalda
a este mundo de luz
e ilusión: el infierno
de mi propia creación,
¿Estaba él en vigilia?
¿Solicitando el préstamo?

Supongo que nunca lo sabré

David Estringel es un escritor / poeta con obras publicadas en publicaciones literarias, como The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalopress, North Meridian Review, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Horror Sleaze Trash y The Blue Nib. Su primera colección de poesía y ficción corta Indeleble Fingerprints (Alien Buddha Press) se publicó en abril de 2019, seguida de tres capítulos de poesía, Punctures (Really Serious Literature - 2019), PeripherieS (The Bitchin 'Kitsch - 2020) y Eating Pears on the Rooftop (Finishing Line Press - julio de 2022). Su nuevo libro de micropoesía, pequeños pinchazos , una colaboración con el ilustrador y artista británico Luca Bowles, será lanzado en 2022 por Really Serious Literature. 

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