Author: Marianne Díaz Hernández
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i wish that i could tell you about the man i love he has eyes like the sky on a bright Sunday morning his smile is like fireflies and his laughter like fireworks and his hands were made to heal wounds and wreckages i wish that i could tell you about the man i love…
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to come to terms with death you first must bargain, beg for every single memory not to be taken away, see them slip through your fingers like sand -that smell, that look, that noise, the softness of that touch- cling to them like they’re everything you have because they are, because you’re in a raft…
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i knew this would be a disaster –what disaster? you say– from the first moment our eyes met in that long hallway you walked towards me and i know my smile said all you needed i knew this would be a disaster –what disaster? you say– from those long calls where we said nothing where…
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Photo by Dovile Ramoskaite on Unsplash. i left my shoes in Queens ‘cause they didn’t fit into my luggage they had walked roads that didn’t take me anywhere they had gone the long distance for no good reason they had gotten unwanted and unwarranted comments about the way i choose to walk through life i…
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i took my dress off ‘cause it made me think of you of all your failed efforts to look away that sunday evening of how your eyes kept undressing me with every glance stripping away in your mind that dress I only bought so you would take it off i took my nails off ‘cause…
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Foto de Martin Olsen en Unsplash Las preocupaciones tradicionales de la sociedad civil en torno al ejercicio de la libertad de expresión en línea tienden hacia la tensión entre las acciones de los Estados para restringirla y la defensa correlativa de los derechos humanos. Sin embargo, el rol de los prestadores de servicio en la…
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I tend to justify many of my decisions —my impulsive choices and my mercurial disposition— by quoting Anaïs Nin, who famously turned down a profile on Harper’s Bazaar by saying: My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and…
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Ojalá que llueva café en el campoPeinar un alto cerro de trigo y mapueyBajar por la colina de arroz graneadoY continuá’ el arado con tu querer Juan Luis Guerra, “Ojalá que llueva café” 1 Para una extranjera, La Vega central es una avalancha de colores, sonidos, olores y sabores difícil de procesar. Desde los puestos,…
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Unas baquetas, un tambor, una charrasca, el latido de un corazón: todo lo que es vida empieza con la percusión. Percute el tono de marcado y el sonido del repique. Desde el teléfono (el skype) escucho la voz de mamá a la distancia, desde la distancia enorme donde está la casa en la que me…
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Es otoño en Santiago y es difícil lograr que el aceite caliente lo suficiente para freír cualquier cosa. Hace un frío penetrante y húmedo, y la cocina eléctrica, por mucho que me digan que sí, no calienta igual que las de gas. Mi primer intento de hacer tequeños es un fracaso cercano a la catástrofe,…
