Cristina Rascon Castro

Author of several short stories' books, like Hanami (2006/2009), El agua está helada / The water is cold (2006), Puede que un Sahuaro seas tú / It might be a Sahuaro is you (2009) and Cuentráficos / Storytraffics (2006). As a translator of Japanese poetry into Spanish she has published the book Sin conocer el mundo / Without knowing the world, by poet Shuntaro Tanikawa in 2007. As an economist, she published the essay book Para entender la economía del arte / To understand the economics of the arts in 2009.

Cristina has received national and international literature prizes in the genres of short story and poetry, as well as several artistic scholarships by the National Funds of Arts of Mexico, among other institutions, to pursue her creative work. Some of the awards she obtained are the Latin American Short Story Award "Benemerito de America" (Mexico, 2005), the Sonora State Short Story Award (Mexico, 2005), the Northwest Regional Literature Award (Mexico, 2008), among others, since 1994. Her work has been translated into French, German, English and Japanese in order to be published in anthologies of narrative, poetry and haiku in several countries.

At her hometown in northern Mexico, she created and coordinated the First Bilingual Literary Contest Jiosiata Nooki (Yaqui-Spanish), promoting and integrating contemporary indigenous literature. She has taught Literary Workshops in Mexico, Hungary, England, Austria and Japan on the topics of Creative Writing, Japanese Literature and Haiku. She currently lives in Vienna, where she works as a consultant for the United Nations.


Vienna is an inhabitable woman
like the woman who doesn't think me
who doesn't allow me to belong to her
who doesn't turn that doesn't get off
that U-Bahn viscera of herself
woman of adolescent dreaminess
woman I have built
you are a city that doesn't exist
"to love" is a foreign word


I'm a piece of wave that didn't reach the sea
a piece of star without sunlight
a tree that didn't split up into pencils
a martyr who doesn't know how to cry

I'm darkness when light rises
a poem when nobody can read
a hobo dandelion ear of wheat
insecticide dust in rooms plaster

I'm a butterfly's wing
with no body to fly
a toad without formalin
uncooked intestines
a rat in a hole (a shrimp after World War IV)

I'm the evil mole from Thumbelina
the stepmother the wolf the crowd that didn't buy a
a dead body without a satellite
an embryo about to come out
held breath
a chord
of the last symphony of memory
a chord
that nobody stops to listen to
Translated by Toshiya Kamei


Heroes Avenue a walk trough your body. Dermisensuality, high heel follicle, vacant taxi, man, mobil phone. A monument to needles, sharpen of the memories. Down there my shoe twinkles without my foot, flutter of my foot without its shoe, over my knee. My voice under I don’t know what. My eyes over you, a white limousine, your arm, pink flowers. A walk by one unknown city: Us. The trees shadow of refuge, the Us extends its hand and touches the sunset in a corner. Under your skin traffic canals, of blood, of animal roads. Under the hair a skull of a bitten corncob, a whiteness of wrinkled paper, the sweat of a spring, a glass with ice. Under the memories bossa nova; over the fear a smile. Us beats well, beats romantic police siren, beats horn, beats bus, it outlines zodiacs and despair, but Us is less afraid than I, Us walks more assertive than your legs, than the whore of black pants and red hair that right now kisses a man with a mobil phone. It may be that Us does know until where to go, until when. To wait for a collective cab, never to go on board, in this city we carry inside, in this city that Us holds, that has been born like a sudden village in the midst of the mountains, a silent village your body, a fresh hamlet your respiration. Us, the lights of the cars, mobil phones that blow out, the not knowing where to. Go. Until this city ends, or finally starts.


I have lost the love I made once with you
Mi body suffers of lemon taste amnesia with the shape of a gardenia
You are a bird that bites and flies away and do not come back to eat the rotten rest
You are not a bird of this world
Hell is full of hearts like mine
They orbit their flight crucifying a sweet and pusillanimous revenge


I want to escape through an ink & blood diluted portrait
to slip through a secret door into the universe I inhabit and search
de-exist de-alienate disintegrate my volute
to prism each molecule of love and hate scrubbing electrons
to spin Alejo's oil lamps and footsteps in order to
de-conquer my continent of failures and fill of caravels my tired anemone’s eye
to urinate warm milk with vanillas’ scent
to veer the dizziness
to re-word you
to discover your hand when I read a poem…
strangling me slowly declaring me terminally ill
I remain unknowing why you’ve left me


Poetry is not you
neither what we are
nor what the other is
Poetry embraces all
in a fist that opens

Translated by the author


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