Elizabeth Morfín’s Poems (in English)

“Poetic Acts of the Patriarchal System”

He makes fun of my eyes squeezing the pain,

Bury my self-esteem in the common grave

throw poison wherever I go

And he turns off the lights at night in the streets 

He sells me the guilt as an accessory,

criticizes my crying which is not delicate,

gives away my fear with a wrapper

and breaks my throat full of anger.

Snubs my ferocious memory,

pretends to honor with mournful tributes,

throws words of atrocious size

and gives impunity to serious crimes.

He paves my body

leaves me empty

warns the tyrant

and replaces my cries

With a smile. 

He leaves me beat

leaves me without respite

hijacks my writing,

my voice and my footprint.

My last resort has become hate

they don't look like "forms" to him,

He forbids me to express my broken heart.

He doesn't want me to look

sprays my eyes,

lies to me

plays funny

and signs supposed suicides.

It makes no sense,

violence makes no sense.

The noises will never stop singing

nor will the silence of the things I dare not say

In Mexico

death and woman,

is the same as destiny.

“Remedies for a deep wound”

I began to notice the wound seconds after passing the pill.

There were cramps looking to evacuate

the mark of the man who attempted against my life.

The manipulations began to burn me,

blood flowed from the hole of insults,

my legs trembled

my head was buzzing

my hands can't interrupt the sound.

I have a sheet in my hand

where the secondary symptoms are displayed.

If the pain is not enough,

wait for the tiredness.

I needed to heal.

The wound was very big.

What do you do in such cases?

It all feels so lonely...

Can't stop the bleeding.

Can I clean myself up and wait for it to calm down?

I cover my belly with warmth and caresses.

I disinfect the idea that I am guilty.

I monitor the evolution of the clots.

I put a Band-Aid on uncertainty.

I must report the person responsible.

I feel the absence in my body.

I feel fragile, like porcelain

I can collapse

I miss being solid, made of wood

Hold me and hug me.

There is a partial loss.

I am in mourning for the strength of the situation.

The little girl who used to hang up posters in her room has died. 

Denunciar es el Ibuprofeno que calma mi dolor.

Denunciar es hacerle justicia a mis límites, 

a mi aborto y a sus crímenes.

Me cura el té que lleva de ingredientes 

las palabras de mi abuelita: 

“Nosotras no somos de esas agallas,

ellos siempre están en la quinta pregunta.

Nosotras seguimos en la lucha.”

Me voy a aliviar.

Yo soy mi alivio. 

Reporting is Ibuprofen that calms my pain.

To denounce is to do justice to my limits,

to my abortion and its crimes.

The tea which ingredients contain the wise words of my grandmother:

“We are not one of those guts,

they are always in the fifth question.

We continue in the fight.”

I'm going to heal. 

I am my healing.