«A mí la poesía / me viene de mi madre»
«Y me queda mi padre / en su hueso de escribano»
Rafael Castillo Zapata
El arte me viene de mi padre
que con tanto ahínco insistía en libros, óleos y ajedrez
Creciendo bajo una cámara sin ser famosa
Con mi boa de plumas y mi afirmación de diva
De mi padre me viene ABBA, Cindy Lauper y la literatura
La figura vacía y la ausencia de un hombre
Tomates verdes fritos y mi homosexualidad latente
La necesidad de ser más que una foto en la pared
De mantener mis ideales sin importar la lucha
de querer ser alguien cándido cariñoso
Aprender que a la familia no se le deja por otra
con mano en pecho con mano en boca
luchar por no querer que nos parezcamos
En la calle todos los hombres se me parecen a mi padre
supongo que ocurre porque no tiene rostro.
«To me poetry / comes from my mother »
«And my father is left / in his bunting bone»
Rafael Castillo Zapata
Art came to me through my father
who insisted with effort on books, oil paintings and chess
Growing up in front of a camera without being famous
with my feather boa and my diva attitude
ABBA, Cindy Lauper and literature came to me through my father
just as the empty chair and a man’s absence
Fried Green Tomatoes and my smoldering homosexuality
The need of being more than just a picture on the wall
Of staying true to my ideals no matter the fight
Of being someone kind loving
Learning that you can’t leave your family for another
hand to my chest hand to my lips
to fight for not wanting us to look alike
Every men I see looks like my father
I guess it happens ‘cause he has no face.
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