[ARCHEOLOGY OF THE FATHER] Poem by ROCÍO CERÓN

Scenario. Heads must be added to the variety of the catalogue of tears, the cost of heads and shipwrecks. Fire. Knotted porcelain, manual gesticulations where the rose is arranged: the one that pulverizes the child's attentive gaze.

Our father died incinerated, only his smile survived, his half smile. And the phrase his lips failed to pronounce:

'Tell me what the secret is every time we say goodbye.'

Gather the humility of your supplications, refill your heart with mold. Corridor where algae are fruit set on edge by air. Restore yourself. Hive of riddles or the activation of tongues in a dark location. —Meanwhile on the streets, men deserted before the war or the proximity of another war, women tabulated crumbs. Asylum.

One form. The same form:

Beneath the word father lie blood, limestone, slices of a time that erased his body.