No Duelen Los Golpes de las Chancletas 

 

Photo by Ismael Rodriguez @Ismrodz

 

Cuida de los que tienen canas.

Take care of those with gray hair.

Mamá, cuanto cabe en una sola palabra. Tu chancletas acústicas y rústicas bailaban en las nalga’ por desalojar la indecencia –ese sabor que hace concebir y idealizar en una cabeza infatigable que supone que tiene todas las respuestas. Me sembraste tu estampa no la piel, en otro pellejo, pero si en las cuerdas de la conciencia que no dejan de estar. Abuela, soy un rasgo de merengue apambichao’ para tu sublime melodía. Vieja, ¡Qué tonta fui!

•••

Grandmother, how much fits in a single word. Your acoustic and rustic sandals danced in the buttocks to evict the indecency – that flavor that makes one think and idealize that a tireless head is supposed to have all the answers. You sowed me, not in the stamp of the skin but in another skin, in the strings of the conscious that never leaves. Grandma, I’m a trait of merengue ampambichao’ for your sublime melody. Grandma, what a fool I was!

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