Maria Liliana Celorrio | Poetry | Springhouse Journal

Maria Liliana Celorrio Zaragoza is a poet, short story writer, and oral narrator who was born in Puerto Padre, Las Tunas, Cuba in 1958. She is an acclaimed author with more than fifty awards and honorable mentions for her writing. She holds the Distinction for the Cuban Culture and the Replica de la Pluma del Cucalambe, among others. Her books include Juegos Malabares (1990); La Barredora de Amaneceres (1993); Los Hombres de Pálido (1997); El jardín de las mujeres muertas (2001); Yo, la peor de todas (2003); Mujeres en la Cervecera (2004); El último tango en Paris (2011); Matar al pájaro sentado (2011); Las Hijas de Sade, a novel co-authored with Guillermo Vidal Ortiz; Editorial Letras Cubanas (2011); Madame la Gorda (2015); and Dragones urbanos (2015). Her poetic and narrative work has appeared in the most important national and international anthologies. Celorrio is a member of the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba (UNEAC); the José Martí Cultural Society; the Nicolas Guillen Foundation and the Ibero-American group, Friends of the Decime Espinel Cucalambe.

Julian Marcel Baldemiro Celorrio is a Cuban narrator, translator, visual artist and illustrator. He graduated from the Onelio Jorge Cardoso Literary Training Center. He won the 2016 Celestino Prize for short story with his book Nube oscura alrededor de la cabeza.

Madame La Gorda

While Listening to Amy Winehouse IV

While Listening to Amy Winehouse VII

Madame La Gorda

And inside the fat lady there is someone who is looking at you. Eliseo Diego Madame la Gorda, yes, is looking at you in her absolute and tender obesity behind the pleats of the soul and of age wants to please you like that, stumbling on the patient feet of the turtle. The real butterfly that beats wings wants in the dark to be a caterpillar and offers you her skin for your bullets. This woman is quietly looking at you and the happy prediction of the universe comes with her to offer you a verse. La Gorda only wants to be a presence and in your quiet glass a chrysanthemum separates its doors in the absence.

While Listening to Amy Winehouse IV

I hate the hiccup. A little sea horse pisses in my diaphragm. The breastbone can be a rib in the desert. The hiccup reminds me of hiphop a dancing spasm interruption of the birth of the voice thread of yarn where a domestic animal howls. I pass my hand over its sandy skin and take out a faltering song. I hate the hiccups which make my vocal chords jump like damned dancers.

While Listening to Songs of Amy Winehouse VII

Rosemary’s baby eats his fingernails and looks a few times in the mirror that two quicksilver crosses appeared in his face. Narcissus looks at his biceps he walks with shifting strides to where he will be my child the sad he that the wind of the north had lifted up to the high sky. He is not this, but he is mine, the one that the little men of iron changed so much that his hard shoulder is like the tendon of the devil.