HOMING JAVIER PEREZ
as i fasten the pen like an umbilical chord
and burden the stage to rewomb me
to finally locate my descendance. on these stages
i, who ruptures my own etymologies out of
elations, mournings, and imaginings
of what once occupied the lacunas,
i recite the following prayer yet again:
the stage is my home
but i do not know the Spanish equivalent
for this particular home:
Translation 1:
the stage is mi casa. i erect walls and phonetically construct a space where my
ephemeral shadows and scarred body can cohabit;
but my memories are themselves nomadic
and do not wish to settle down.
Translation 2:
then the stage is mi hogar: my residence, an address where you can find me;
but – most times – i do not wish to be found.
Translation 3:
then the stage is mi techo, sheltering my being from scorching suns and flooding rains;
but it is precisely a sun and a rain
that i seek out for my fruition.
Translation 4:
then the stage is mi tierra to root me in its fertility for a ritual reseeding;
but my bones long to scatter across
different bodies of water, unresolved with any one soil.
Translation 5:
then the stage is mi refugio, with a sense of safety;
but, unlike my family, i was not an immigrant,
i need a different kind of safe.
Translation 6:
then the stage is mi patria, where i can demarcate borders and declare a motherland,
self-identify as volcanic offspring,
son of the ashes of monoliths,
brown as empty chrysalises.
i do not know the exact equivalent for home
my cellular entity has ever only known away.