an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

“Come on, don’t be like that, let her play with you”

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

[it’s real when they say it]

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

[it’s real when they say it]

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

“Come on, don’t be like that, let her play with you”

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
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