Skip to content
from the May 2017 issue

A Memory

They told us to be careful, that men would do nasty things to us at the smallest slip-up.  The saying carried the sound of sewer waters, of something dirty, and dark, like forest tracks. Despite this, we let it nestle in our mouths, to have a feel of its viscous, foreign nature.

In hallways, sprawled under weak light bulbs, the hard coldness of the floor tiles traveled up our buttocks, and we pressed our legs tight to conjure up a spark from our rosy pearl. We checked the limpets on our chests. We licked teaspoons.

Right after we would pull up our white socks and run through the streets, schoolbook satchels to the wind. Our knees were trusting doves; the ribbons in our hair, delicious bait.

And we kept silent. We let the days pass is all, waited, until the moment came to let someone touch us. 

 

"Oroitzapen bat" © Miren Agur Meabe. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2017 by Amaia Gabantxo. All rights reserved.

Read more from the May 2017 issue
Like what you read? Help WWB bring you the best new writing from around the world.