Juan Manuel Santiago León / ARTE DISPERSO

All the given words led me to one person, my grandmother. 1936 a bloody war bombs fall the space under a staircase cracks my great uncle is a baby a neighbour is blown up. 1943 A Cordovan torturer sucks a lemon while the face of the red turns blue shots are heard in the street a false alarm. 1987 I’ve never liked honey I hate things that look me in the eye neither prawns nor snails first time I got drunk on sour beer. 1995 She hung the curtains in one of her flats to rent although she didn’t invite us to eat so as not to mess up the kitchen. 2009 My mother sets her curlers my youngest uncle writes simple poems and tells me his new theory to fix Spain and the world. 2015 It’s 30 years since my grandfather died and the word processor goes crazy. The email opens windows without reason and decides alone to send an unfinished poem. Today I’ve smashed a mobile against the floor and without wanting, I’ve paid homa