árbol (o, a veces soy)
a veces soy árbol que nació torcido – my branches
refuse medication and dictionaries.
a veces soy voces sin sexo ni pulmón – a tap on my shoulder,
a trip to the carpentry workshop.
a veces soy papeles amarillos – a relic from my parents’ time,
their paranoia branches out into my bed sheets.
a veces soy cachicamo, morrocoy, tortuguita – the bark that covers my back
resists in the language of bubbles.
a veces soy el sodio de tus rámenes instantáneos – contrary to what they say,
lipstick does grow in gardens.
a veces soy la media vuelta, cintura sola, manos arriba – my leaves convulse
gently to the sounds of my ancestors.
a veces soy solo un error – my branches
refuse medication and dictionaries.
Carlos Egaña (Caracas, 1995) recently finished his MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish at New York University. He has also taught courses on Gender Studies and Modern North American Fiction at Universidad Católica Andrés Bello. He has three books in print: a novel titled Reggaetón (Ediciones Punto Cero, 2022) and two poetry collections, hacer daño(Oscar Todtmann Editores, 2020) and Los Palos Grandes (dcir ediciones, 2017). And he has published poems and articles on art, politics, and pop culture in various Venezuelan and North American publications. He is particularly proud of a narrative essay of his titled Ya solo queda cruzar con cuidado, which details his struggles with bipolar disorder in a progressively lonelier Venezuela.
Photo: Satoshi Tsuchiyama