Natalia Treviño
Camas para Sueños, Almas Gemelas
After Carmen Lomas Garza’s Camas para Sueños, 1985, gouache on paper
We only knew to grow our squat tangled petals by the river, to morsel them with the aging shoots of palms and feral dung when she was no mother yet, still a girl, younger than these twin daughters now, dreaming under this sulky dreamy sky. We offered her what we knew was good, a hint of wind, a swath of yellow from our hands that had earned their springs—then the year her father stopped holding her close, the year he kept her from curling up on his lap, our ofrenda. The year he let señorita fly from his lips, it was as if he released bats that eat the bloody things, the very lives that scuttle and fly in the night. That was the year her Uelita showed her to dig us up from our root balls, from our coiling white hairs. Leave our bones cold like shivering newborn cats. It was the first time our wild legs dried naked like frightened sticks. Uelita instructed her to place us aside. To sever us from dead leaves, keep our main pouch wrapped, cool and in a silent place. We heard her say, keep them locked all winter like dreams. She unwraps us as if she were lifting a bedspread, covers our dry feelers in ponds of dirt, in whispers, in prayers for flags that lick the water from the air.