THE UNIFORM OF FLOWERS
by ILEANA GARMA, TRANS. BY ALLISON A. DEFREESE
I.
Uniforms erase gestures
erase years
erase people
turning them into balloons
about to burst
amid a field of flowers
II.
The episteme of our era has to do with flowers. it has to do with fractals that open in the spring. my mother has never walked in the middle of a field with tall grass. in summertime, brightly colored butterflies whirl behind television screens. my mother watches 33 screens that have been switched on. patterns and chaos in yellow and gold. forests that fade if you get too close. blue pixels. green ones. yellow, the color of fear. in the electronics department, my mother watches 33 swirling butterflies. a field of screens where the grass grows tall and wild. yellow screens. the episteme of our era has to do with a stain. delicate dots on butterflies’ wings. fractals like dead flowers on my mother’s face. i watched a woman watch 33 televisions that have been switched on. on their screens she saw the course of her life passing.
III.
I dream my mother sows black buttons in the ground before she lets go of my hand forever. i dream i’m dancing every afternoon on that dark plantation where the other girls and i
harvest all the love words
that our mothers
never had time
to water
IV.
My mother’s dance is rain in a range of gray hues. a navy-blue cyclone. she has danced in uniform at all our family celebrations. my mother’s dance is a train losing its direction. a train that crashes through old buildings. unstable buildings. her movements lack happiness. families don’t exist at her celebrations. in uniform, my mother attends end-of-the-world dances. her muscles tense. her back and neck flash like sirens. she rains gray hues. ranges of hatred. her uniform is a code. a secret message. she detonates it with her eyes closed. with her arms wrapped around herself. as if covering the debris of a child in the middle of a battlefield.
V.
a girl falls asleep
wearing her uniform.
when she wakes up,
she has grown older
standing before the mirror
all she recognizes now
is her immaculate uniform
VI.
She ties her days in knots. unbuttons her nights. irons the storm into perfect pleats. she has learned to walk through boiling houses. through swarms of insects. through a night enmeshed in nine varieties of lace. her youth is a stain. a fragile seam. her childhood is ripped polyester. lamps like sunsets curse you. corner you. my mother has not ever read and is an illuminated hallway. a textile illness. a heart broken in the isolated anxiety of lost cigarettes. where are you? how can I find you? lend me the map of your 30-years working at the department store. of your fifty-somethings amid never-ending work. a procession of oversized wrinkles. smiles like melancholy blows. the stained-glass windows of old women in doll bodies. sundays of drunken boredom. a couple girls think they know the way back. lend me your life-map. i am trying to find you.
VII.
At night, my mother unbuttons
seventeen transparent buttons
she wiggles free
from her dark brown vest
from her wine-colored
Jacket
from her threadbare bow tie
her tight-fitting skirt
her tiny loafers.
at night, my mother wiggles free
from her uniform and in her pale nakedness
reveals to us
the white destiny
of ghosts
VIII.
My mother knows that words are tied to the edge of the beach where the gulfweed decays. my mother lives in non-places. my mother smokes, and the promise of cancer cannot stop her. my mother smokes under black clouds. she is not awaiting that ray of light or that hand offering salvation. my mother smokes in the rain. in the pouring rain. in the wild rain. in the summer deluge. her hair is drenched. her uniform is drenched. her feet sink into the mud, and she trembles. she has no home. no daughters. no parents. my mother watches cars slide down the highway. windows rolled up. air conditioners on. smiling children. as if there existed a whole world of happy and loved things that have never known invasions. my mother smokes without words getting in her way. or viruses. prisons. premature births. the extinct species under her feet. all the girls she has been come together at her side. my mother passes them her cigarette. they are trembling.
IX.
No one wants to talk
about the women who clock
their time of entry
into a bright
air-conditioned capsule
a mixture of perfumes
impedes sleep
useless objects twinkle
like stars do
i watched a gentle woman
walk through that place
until she filled with shadows
they always left en masse
and spilled into a rainy city
where other lights still
threatened
i saw a woman watching
33 switched on televisions
on their screens
she saw the course of her life passing
X.
Exhaustion. a way of life like yellow leaves. moles and birthmarks that occupy every territory. leaves that refuse to fall. weariness. a slow word. tired. each day, the blouse my mother buttons has a new button. she can no longer undress and go to bed. a new button appears and then another and another. buttons that spread across a whole body. my sister and i are waiting for her. we cry out to her from the middle of a luminous room. it’s ongoing. i try to stay awake. i keep my eyes open under the bright light. my sister and i scream. we open our hands. my mother will never finish. you two go on. she seems to be saying. go on without me. my mother refuses to fall. her face is filling up with moles. that’s how we can tell when leaves are dead but living. the episteme of our era has to do with leaves. with the way they become detached from branches after it rains.
author pic here
Ileana Garma is a Literary Award winner…
Allison A. DeFreese is a Literary Award winner…
Next ( Lutz Seiler, trans. by Martyn Crucefix) >
< Previous ( Simone Lappert trans. by Fabienne Rink)