After Batsheva Dori-Carlier<\/em><\/p>\n A decomposing house at the edge of memory, falling Her broken back, a cracked ruin. She is also at the end The dining table laid again at dusk. A place for each Her mother\u2019s mother, a curse too. Her clothes drowned Circles formed, wind picked up speed. Clouds balancing A house in a now forgotten tree-lined street, a muffled cry <\/p>\n It wasn’t even here in any map out of nothing, on a rocky cliff, The large house appeared there Who built it? And for who? Guess. A ghost among large white that clicked their beaks, a light Green turtles at the shore grass, Whitewashed walls, torn There wasn’t a way in. A whirled They said an heiress paid to build by fishermen, their spouses. but rock\u2019s shadows, a frieze In Devil\u2019s Cape, out of nothing\u2014 The Ballad of Mam\u00e1 Pochita After Batsheva Dori-Carlier A decomposing house at the edge of memory, falling into an abyss. Nothing is like it used to be. Her face is a double mask from the afterworld. Del m\u00e1s all\u00e1 y de aqu\u00ed. Her broken back, a cracked ruin. She is also at the end of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":278,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[371,372],"tags":[375],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\ninto an abyss. Nothing is like it used to be. Her face is
\na double mask from the afterworld. Del m\u00e1s all\u00e1 y de aqu\u00ed<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\nof a long wide corridor, her past flash through her mind
\nas she holds a little boy, a rose-scented rosary in her hand.<\/p>\n
\nof our dead: two plates, one fork, a half-eaten peach.
\nThe moment she says Forget your beginnings, what\u2019s beneath<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\nin the middle of a dusty patio. They got rid of all gowns
\nthat smelt of her. A pyre grew, children played around.<\/p>\n
\non a washing line, her body giving away. She wasn\u2019t
\nasking to be a saint. Her cuticles under the tap, vanishing.<\/p>\n
\nfrom an old lady foretelling her future se viene la tormenta
\nte voy a buscar un rinconcito en el cielo<\/em> a tiny little place in the sky.<\/p>\nPunta del Diablo<\/h5>\n
\nyet a mansion was built on the Cape,<\/p>\n
\nimpassible to all, a glyph.<\/p>\n
\nfrom nowhere, out of thin air.<\/p>\n
\nThe place aloof, ownerless.<\/p>\n
\nwidows\u2014viuditas blancas de Uruguay<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\ncrisscrossed the sky at night.<\/p>\n
\nlooked up at the concrete mass.<\/p>\n
\nwindows, an iron door.<\/p>\n
\nlighthouse to the underworld?<\/p>\n
\nthe coastal mansion, she unseen<\/p>\n
\nNo-one at the house<\/p>\n
\nagainst tempestuous seas.<\/p>\n
\na house shaped<\/p>\n
\nthe monstrous thing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"