enero.jpg

En el luto me he pintado los ojos de azul
pero quisiera decirte que mi boca es amarilla

Amarilla (Ariadna Revista Cultural)

Sol Camarena Medina

 
morado.jpg

Eva ¿a qué estrella
le pusiste nombre? ¿Te escucharon acaso los astrónomos
cuando les llegó el turno?

Eva (Ariadna Revista Cultural)

Sol Camarena Medina

 
iglesia.jpg

Quiero que seamos yo un pájaro y tú un pez, las dos
nadando en un mundo de corales fosforescentes
en una explanada de cielos malvas y violetas.

Metáforas de amor temprano (Díscola Ediciones)

Sol Camarena Medina

 
norte.jpg

Pregúntale a una lesbiana por un cuerpo
y te responderá con un interrogante

Sol Camarena Medina

 
rojo.jpg

Creo que tengo
un bezoar en la pelvis. Sé que habitualmente
se acumulan en el aparato digestivo, o eso me dice Google
pero quizás mi cuerpo funcione de forma distinta

Bezoar en la pelvis (El Periódico de las Señoras)

Sol Camarena Medina

 
luz.jpg

All of my poems speak of someone who’s dead
even if they don’t name it – all of my metaphors of dust and birds
are actually a way of praying for a sky that cradles me down there
to a God whose face I’ll never be able to see. I’m tired
of looking all the way up.

Mourning of the lesbian body (Madness Muse Press)

Sol Camarena Medina

 
coches.jpg

To say monster is to say woman
who does not breastfeed – who tears off her own chest – who dyes her long hair a gothic color
to shave off her crane skull afterwards and get rid of all locks.

To say monster is to say woman (Madness Muse Press)

Sol Camarena Medina

 
luna.jpg

All of the women poets who committed suicide stab my chest like wheat spikes
to my calves, like nails to the cross, like forget-me-not thorns
if forget-me-nots grew thorns.

Mad woman (Sprout Club Journal)

Sol Camarena Medina

 
rama.jpg

and so i aimed to write an essay on mourning but mourning / spills the way a poem would out of my half-opened mouth / mourning breaks the way hymens do first time falling from your bike

on mourning (Pulp Poets Press)

Sol Camarena Medina

 
flor.jpg

first act: the apple devours itself devours its seeds devours its skin
i wash my hands in a barrel that’s full of dirty water your face looks like the bird of paradise
except for the nail marks.

Sol Camarena Medina

 
árboles.jpg

Death – just like an equilibrist ballerina’s
hair bun pin
they’ve got it attached to their thighs
adjusting
the measuring tape.

Where did they go (Yes Poetry)

Sol Camarena Medina