Amaya Mikolič-Berrios
Canorous Ana Torroja, pop princess
Of my father’s blue mini cooper
On a CD he borrowed from my mother
And never gave back.
Disc and wheels spinning
Over the island’s stagnant time—
Hoy no me puedo levantar
Toda la noche sin dormir—
In the backseat,
I fall asleep to the swell
Of her voice and the waves,
As he drove us back home from the beach.
Now, Ana Torroja’s poster hangs peeling
Of a Mediterranean city that never changes,
Thirty years after her radio monopoly;
She glares from smiling eyes
now. That fame fades into the cracks
Of salt-stained asphalt sloping
Into nightly lapping water:
¿Me recuerdas?
Five years old and last summer
Perdido en mi habitación sin saber qué hacer
As though reversing months and days
Could bring me home—a word which has meant nothing
Since first grade
When homes crashed together into seafoam.
My father was solid
When he was papá and my memories were blurred
Like sand in a thunderstorm;
Then he threw the CD out
With the echoes of lullabies and blue cars.
I listen to the album again—
Torroja’s voice wrapped around 80s synth,
Missing the scratches of 2000s car rides
With a papá who doesn’t talk—
And I drown for a home that never existed.
Amaya Mikolič-Berrios is a second year studying political science and (hopefully) creative writing. If you get her talking about French existentialism, expect to be there for a while. Send a message by crow if you want to get in touch.
