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

Use lipstick

to make people like you

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

“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.”

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

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

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

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

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

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

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

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

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

“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.”

Use lipstick

to make people like you

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

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

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

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

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

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

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

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

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

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

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

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

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

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

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

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Use lipstick

to make people like you

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

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

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

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

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

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

“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.”

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

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

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

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

Use lipstick

to make people like you

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

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

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

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

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

Use lipstick

to make people like you

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

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

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

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

Use lipstick

to make people like you

“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.”

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

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

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

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

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

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

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

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

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

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

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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