Poem
Armando Romero
Aunt Chinca
I never spoke of my Aunt Chinca for fear of her silence. I remember those long waves of smokecoming from the back bedroom, the one facing the patio; the product of her cheap cigars. She
smoked them there in the dark like someone saluting infinity. I don\'t know what her voice sounded
like because she never said a word to me, neither in rage nor in tenderness. I do remember her black
dresses though and her slippers worn out by wandering from who knows where. No one told me
what my Aunt Chinca did on Sundays or whether she had secret loves, violent passions, fortuitous
encounters. What did my Aunt Chinca do, sitting alone in the patio? When she passed by the living
room at noon, where the whole family would meet to listen to songs of Pedro Infante, my Aunt
Chinca would leave a trail of ashes and rubbish as if she were slowly disintegrating. But no one ever
noticed this, or was it only I that could decipher the spots she left in space? They say she died all shrunken up, like a wild pigeon, and that with her, they buried her silence.
© Translation: 2006, Alita Kelley and Janet Foley
LA TIA CHINCA
LA TIA CHINCA
Nunca hablé de mi tía Chinca por miedo a su silencio. Recuerdo esas largas oleadas de humo quevenían desde la última pieza, la que daba al patio, y que eran producto de sus cigarros baratos. Ella
los fumaba allí, en lo oscuro, como quien saluda al infinito. No sé cómo era su voz porque nunca me
dijo una palabra de rabia ni de cariño. Tengo memoria sí de sus vestidos negros y de sus babuchas
gastadas por un caminar de no sé dónde. Nadie me dijo qué hacía mi tía Chinca los domingos o si
tuvo amores secretos, pasiones violentas, encuentros fortuitos. ¿Qué hacía mi tía Chinca sentada sola
en el patio? Cuando pasaba a mediodía por la sala, donde toda la familia se reunía a oír las canciones
de Pedro Infante, mi tía Chinca dejaba una estela de ceni-zas y escombros como si lentamente se
estuviera desha-ciendo. Pero nadie lo notaba, o ¿era yo sólo el que des-cifraba las manchas que dejaba
en el espacio? Dicen que murió pequeñita, como una torcaza, y que con ella enterraron también su
silencio.
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Aunt Chinca
I never spoke of my Aunt Chinca for fear of her silence. I remember those long waves of smokecoming from the back bedroom, the one facing the patio; the product of her cheap cigars. She
smoked them there in the dark like someone saluting infinity. I don\'t know what her voice sounded
like because she never said a word to me, neither in rage nor in tenderness. I do remember her black
dresses though and her slippers worn out by wandering from who knows where. No one told me
what my Aunt Chinca did on Sundays or whether she had secret loves, violent passions, fortuitous
encounters. What did my Aunt Chinca do, sitting alone in the patio? When she passed by the living
room at noon, where the whole family would meet to listen to songs of Pedro Infante, my Aunt
Chinca would leave a trail of ashes and rubbish as if she were slowly disintegrating. But no one ever
noticed this, or was it only I that could decipher the spots she left in space? They say she died all shrunken up, like a wild pigeon, and that with her, they buried her silence.
© 2006, Alita Kelley and Janet Foley
Aunt Chinca
I never spoke of my Aunt Chinca for fear of her silence. I remember those long waves of smokecoming from the back bedroom, the one facing the patio; the product of her cheap cigars. She
smoked them there in the dark like someone saluting infinity. I don\'t know what her voice sounded
like because she never said a word to me, neither in rage nor in tenderness. I do remember her black
dresses though and her slippers worn out by wandering from who knows where. No one told me
what my Aunt Chinca did on Sundays or whether she had secret loves, violent passions, fortuitous
encounters. What did my Aunt Chinca do, sitting alone in the patio? When she passed by the living
room at noon, where the whole family would meet to listen to songs of Pedro Infante, my Aunt
Chinca would leave a trail of ashes and rubbish as if she were slowly disintegrating. But no one ever
noticed this, or was it only I that could decipher the spots she left in space? They say she died all shrunken up, like a wild pigeon, and that with her, they buried her silence.
© 2006, Alita Kelley and Janet Foley
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