Jacqueline Loweree (Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, 1989) is an anthropologist and sociologist who works as an evaluator and strategist in the field of philanthropy in New York City. For more than a decade, she has been involved with multimillion-dollar investment portfolios for several NGOs, corporations, and institutions such as: Habitat for Humanity International, National Alliance on Mental Illness, ViiV Healthcare, National Institutes of Health, and the Association of American Medical Colleges. When she is not wearing her social impact warrior hat, she dedicates her time to literature. She is the author of three books of poetry, El tiempo de la mariposa (2019), Canciones de una urraca (2022), and El suicidio del escorpión (2023). In her verses she shares personal problems, such as bipolar disorder and suicide, or of a social nature, such as the femicides in Mexico. Her poetry explores the everyday life of her environment and conveys the emotional instability of what she calls a "captive mind".
Escéptica
Me gusta la gente creyente,
de fe, quienes de rodillas
en una capilla, se hincan
a pedir el milagro del día y
a jurar que serán dignos
para aún recibirlo, al menos
hasta que el agua bendita,
en forma de cruz,
se evapore de sus frentes.
De ilusiones huecas
se arrullan al dormir en silencio
ya que el ruido de una escéptica
no lo escuchan los devotos,
sordos de la bulla del desamparo.
De la mano van, extendida,
juntos con Dios, sin ningún fingir
a pasear por la tarde
aunque la escéptica los vea
caminar siempre solos.
Skeptic
I like people who believe,
of faith, who kneel in a chapel,
to solicit their daily miracle
and claim their worthiness
upon its receipt, at least
until the holy water,
in the form of a cross,
evaporates from their foreheads.
They lull themselves to sleep,
with hollow illusions, in silence
because people who believe
cannot hear the skeptic,
deaf to desolation.
Hand in hand they go
confidently with God
for an afternoon stroll,
even if at a distance the skeptic
sees them walking alone.
No te calles
(para mis feministas)
No te quedes paralizada
al borde de la injusticia
no pierdas las ganas
no quieras momentáneamente
no te calles ahora
ni nunca, mujer
no te calles
no te llenes de apatía
no reserves tus protestas
sólo a espacios sin juicio
no dejes caer tus ánimos
pesados tras lo impune
no te quedes sin voz
no te duermas sin luchar
no te pienses sin valor
no te juzgues como
no los juzgan a ellos.
pero si
pese a todo
no puedes evitarlo
y pierdes las ganas
y quieres momentáneamente
y te callas ahora
y te llenas de apatía
y reservas tus protestas
sólo a espacios sin juicio
y dejas caer tus ánimos
pesados tras lo impune
y te consuelas sin voz
y te duermes sin luchar
y te piensas sin valor
y te juzgas como
no los juzgan a ellos
y te quedas paralizada
al borde de la injusticia
y te callas
entonces
no cuentes conmigo.
*inspirado por el poema “No te Salves” de Mario Benedetti
Don't lower your voice
(to my feminists)
Don't become paralyzed
on the brink of injustice
don't lose your desire
don't want momentarily
don't lower your voice now
nor ever, woman
don't lower your voice
don't be filled with apathy
don't hold your protests
only to spaces without judgment
don't let your spirit wane
deflated from the impunity
don't lose your voice
don't fall asleep without fighting
don't think yourself worthless
don't judge yourself as
they don't judge them.
but if
despite all
you can't help it
and you lose the desire
and you want momentarily
and you lower your voice now
and you are filled with apathy
and you hold your protests
only to spaces without judgment
and you let your spirit wane
deflated after the impunity
and you seek solace without your voice
and you fall asleep without fighting
and you think you are worthless
and you judge yourself as
they don't judge them
and you freeze
on the brink of injustice
and you lower your voice
then
don't count on me.
*inspired by the poem "No te Salves" by Mario Benedetti
Trabajadores esenciales
Pasan las calandrias
al anochecer.
Al menos la ilusión
de caballos trotando,
dejando huellas sangrientas
de herraduras
que por el pavimento
de tardes en mayo,
se derriten.
Mis perras
les ladran a vagones
que van recogiendo escombros,
y poco a poco,
la ciudad limpiando.
Los caballos,
trabajadores esenciales,
andan de costillas descubiertas,
bajo sólo la piel de mil soles,
hincados
de rodillas.
Sacos de huesos,
pesan más de hambre
que de esperanzas.
Ellos van por las avenidas
cabalgando
para ganarse una propina,
así, acabando con sus ganas,
ellos mendigan.
De vez en cuando
se escucha el lejano gritar
de sus dueños
enfurecidos
y de los latigazos que tajan
sus muslos.
El buen trabajo
siempre se recompensa
con más trabajo.
Arre,
arre,
mi caballo.
Essential workers
The carriages pass
at dusk.
At least the mirage
of trotting horses,
leaving bloody footprints
of horseshoes
that melt on the pavements
of warm May afternoons.
My dogs
bark at the wagons
collecting trash,
cleaning bit by bit,
the city’s debris.
Horses,
the essential workers,
parade with their bare ribs,
under the skin of a thousand suns,
crouched slightly
on their bloody knees.
Sacs of bones,
that are weighed more by their hunger
than by their hope.
And they canter along
all to earn a tip,
and just as their will erodes,
they cannot help but
beg the pity of a pious soul.
From time to time
the distant screaming of their owners
reverberates
enraged
as well as the sounds of the whips
that penetrate their skins.
Good work
is always rewarded
with more work.
Giddyap,
giddyap,
my horse!