print previewback PABLO PIÑERO STILLMANN
Elegy for Us Both
Ya sé que es tonto eso, que estás muerta
que más vale callar.
—J. Sabines
At the time of your second death, phones were still slow & dumb
like the tides. My Nokia had a fit on a towel that day at the beach
hours after they found your sand petrified. My father’s voice
always: She died. Long story. Get on a plane. I did.
(I cried.) Don’t laugh but the rabbi spoke as a young man of his
new bride. He neglected to mention you always said religion reeked
of pesticide. His mouth spat the camp you & your sisters
survived: Treblinka, Janowska, Gross-Rosen, Kaiserwald.
It’s all one. I wept when you died, but, forgive me, not
for your death, but for mine. We all get two deaths & I used
up my first one at tender twenty-five. People came to
me preoccupied: it must’ve seemed we’d been quite close.
(I lied.) We barely knew each other. You never knew anyone,
never married, tiny, bug-eyed. We’d only talk at the table
on high holidays, side by side. Oftentimes the subject was Fidel
Castro: I’d call him a murderer, you’d bite violent with
communist pride. It doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does,
yet we still try. You could never hold a job, too precious &
unqualified. I tell people I don’t like the beach, but never mention
you; it’s implied. I’m writing this in the dark, dear great-aunt,
& I’m not satisfied. Failure isn’t the waning of hope—I wish!—
it’s the murder of hope mid-stride. Hurt left your face
in my brain calcified. Would you tell me how
it happened? Is that you? What’s that? You’re outside? 