We are lost on the bed,
an arm cut off by an abstraction.
Old pox, you
and your shirt sleeve.
Yet be careful when you walk there
(outside, the live oaks).
How late, Ricardo, how dark
and late already.
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Our somber city of meds & the grief
we happen to be around
—and want. What I think is I would not understand
whom he has loved because I would want ours.
Problems were we were adolescent
in homosexual love, the usual history
of loss, profit.
I’d like to think I am trying to keep up,
anyhow, with my rage.
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It was five o’clock when paper handkerchiefs descended
over the ocean’s surge—
one ocean varnished by oil in the morning, fish
under the surge’s blades.
My country, you whimpered under fog. I awoke to the tender
sound of seashells on the radio.
I knelt by myself and listened: your flat skeleton, large skeleton,
would group at the back.
Come, you murmured over canned goods. Come. I will tell you
everything—
clay seeps onto roots, roots drawn by salt, roots crowned
by trees. The cords unravel from the flesh of trees, unravel
by storm shutters. Come.
See the roads brim with red poppy, roads tracked
by green serpents
((a la víbora, víbora / de la mar, de la mar))
I tendered nine eggs before the ignorant lion
of exile, who nodded.
At five in the morning, everything seemed to be made of lime—
one torso shrouded by magnolia, one torso under vulgar peal
of grey morgues, and the fish.
A las cinco de la mañana, descendían sobre olas pañuelos
de papel
—ese océano revestido por aceite en la mañana, los peces
bajo el filo de olas.
Pueblo mío, gemías bajo niebla cuando desperté
con el ruido tierno de caracolas en radios.
Me arrodillé para escucharte—tu esqueleto gordo
pero raso se agrupaba a tus espaldas.
Venid, dijiste sobre enlatados. Venid. Os contaré algo—
el lodo sangraba sus raíces en sal, se coronaban de árboles, desenredaban
cuerdas encarnadas de los árboles
bajo tormenteras. Venid.
Ver las calles colmadas de amapolas cortadas, calles rodeadas
de víboras
((a la víbora, víbora / de la mar, de la mar)).
Solté mis nueve huevecillos frente al león ignorante
del exilio. Él cabeceaba.
A las cinco de la mañana, me parecía todo estar hecho de cal—
un torso revestido por sudarios de magnolia, un torso desdoblado
bajo vulgar campanadas
de una morgue gris, y los peces.
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I started at the surface, feeling about my face,
the low jawbone my mother had given me
as weapon against austerity. Two decades before,
my father had died. I was desperate under summer’s
isosceles. A fragile machine descended
with a yellowing haze on the city.
Whom had I been then, but the sediment inside
that thing I named Ricardo Alberto?
Blessed is he, blessed in the reddening
of medical pins, blessed under fluorine yolks.
I venerated my mother at Centro Médico, her prayer cards
at midnight, the saffron of her blood tearing as it coursed,
a thick mass on concrete inside coral.
Mother, today it snows in another city besieged by comet tails.
You breathed that day, the sharp instrument of men
on your heart—waded, they waded, I remember the wings
of your lungs. It was midnight when I went in search of angels
in the shoes of the sick near the gates of heaven.
On the seventh day, we all take repose in the Kingdom
of the Sick. Blessed are they, blessed the cold comfort of a wind
rushing over teeth, blessed the long corridors
of heaven, blessed the gelatin in refrigerators,
the instant coffee, blessed our sentence of silver, of flowers.
Blessed may they be, blessed.
Empecé al ras, tanteando en mi rostro
el mentón bajo que me había entregado mi madre
como rango contra la austeridad. Dos décadas atrás,
había muerto mi padre. Yo lloraba bajo el isósceles
de junio. Una maquina frágil como niebla amarilla
de estrellas había descendido sobre la ciudad.
¿Quién habré sido aquella vez, además del sedimento dentro
de algo que había llamado Ricardo Alberto?
Bienaventurado sea, bienaventurado en el rojo
fijo y aséptico de alfileres, bienaventurado bajo las yemas de flúor.
Veneré a mi madre en Centro Médico, sus estampitas a media
noche, el azafrán de sangre que rasgaba su curso de masa espesa
sobre el concreto de coral.
Madre, hoy nieva en otra ciudad bajo colas de cometas.
Apenas respirabas aquel día con los instrumentos ásperos
de hombres en tu corazón. Bogando, bogando, recuerdo las alas
de tu pulmón. Eran las doce cuando salí en búsqueda de ángeles
entre los zapatos de los enfermos cerca de las puertas del cielo.
Era el séptimo día cuando se tomaba la siesta en el Reino
de los Enfermos. Bienaventurados sean, bienaventurado el rumor
frío acogedor sobre los dientes, bienaventurados los largos pasillos
de los cielos, bienaventurada la gelatina en los refrigeradores,
el café instantáneo. Bienaventurados en su condena de plata y flor.
Bienaventurados sean.
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I have a moon. I had six mothers
in my poverty.
Is this all I have for myself?
I was born, like everyone, in a house
with one door.
I have memories
to revise.
No doubt, you’ll find
the expiration date.
Mi mamá me ama. I laid waste to my health
in the walls of her heart, while regretting
this analogy
for the labor of a body.
I had a house with three windows.
I remembered her
alone with her memories of youth,
the deep-hearted course
of one rough word turned
judgment in my blood—mother.
As for her, this is the truth:
when she cries
for her mother, I dismantle all walls
to extract her with one word
—mother.
I learn her sacrifice
and grace.
I had one moon. Mother, teach me
when to seek out.
I’ll note the expiration date.
That’s how I talked while my mother,
with fruit, fed me.
Tengo una luna. Tuve seis madres
en la pobreza.
¿Esto es todo de mí mismo?
Nací, como todos, en una casa
con una puerta.
Tengo recuerdos
por corregir.
Sin duda, encontrarás fecha de vencimiento.
Mi mamá me ama. He estropeado mi salud
en las paredes de su corazón, arrepentido
por esta analogía
para el funcionamiento del cuerpo.
Tuve una casa con tres ventanas.
Recordé que se encontraba
sola con sus recuerdos de juventud, el curso
coronario
de su palabra ruda, vuelta juicio
en sangre—madre.
En cuanto a mi madre, esta es mi verdad:
cuando ella llora
por la suya, desmantelo todas las paredes
para extraerla con una palabra
—madre.
Sabré de su sacrificio,
de su gracia.
Tuve una luna. Mamá, enséñame
a entender.
Sin duda, encontraré fecha de vencimiento.
Así hablaba yo mientras mi madre,
con frutas, me alimentaba.
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The loveseat, my familiar, had me half-numb.
I made the sign at the rim of the clearing
outside on the fire escape,
where I would toss Marlboros out
in the dream of discipline. Milk in a bottle heating
in the sun.
I prayed, likely infected
by the warm climate
in the walk-up and the home inside it
where I read a book I would. And the pines keeping roots
nocturnal.
I would rise with my spectacles, light-headed and presexual.
My pallid face made me think of the fabric
on my chest,
pronouncing my fear
beyond words, mad to be in my flesh for one last
minute—
one thing I made by being there, waiting to find my home
by the curve
in the highway and the bridge,
day and night in Manhattan, the borough in the wind.
Sobre el sofá, con mi espíritu, me encontraba medio adormecido.
Crucé mis dedos al persignarme cerca del borde claro
de la escalera de incendios
para desechar los Marlboros
en un sueño de disciplina. La leche en su botella calentaba
bajo sol.
Oré, probablemente afectado
por el clima cálido
en el apartamento sin ascensor en su interior
donde leía lo que podría haber leído. Los pinos guardando de sus raíces
en un nocturno.
Me habría levantado con mis anteojos, ligero en mente y presexual.
Mi cara pálida pensando sobre la tela
de mi pecho,
pronunciaba algo sobre mi miedo
más allá de las palabras, enojado con mi propia carne, propia piel, en un último
minuto—
algo adicional figuré estando allí, esperando hacer de mi hogar
por la curva
frente al expreso y su puente,
día y noche en Manhattan, la ciudad en el viento.
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We drink milk with minor courage
born of poverty—
we’d learned much from books: every day would carry
epistemological
imperatives
with moccasins to our feet.
Survival would depend on fidelity to internal
revenue, on observance
of parsimony. We would try
to make our way—
orange rinds decayed at the table;
the bread began to grow stale.
We awaken to visions, risk surrender
to exact change.
We consume yet live in abundance,
dream of metamorphoses
and self-government
before the white of eggs.
Lying in bed, we would parse circular deals
for indicators of the market’s villainy.
Timidly we paced
over foundations and used interpretation
for the octopus tin.
In winter, socks were thicker.
Water at arm’s length—we washed underarms,
washed feet with the fury
of lapsed prudery. A right hand probed
the left with uncoordinated
feel for its surface.
In the bath, we would pilfer the toothpaste.
We began to be simple again
yet ceased to be surprised by anything
we would produce.
We yielded to the tide
of urine in the morning, suppressed
lymph—the concentrate
would trickle down to residue.
On the mat, we would bend
to new posture
in the effort of thinking, to have more
to tell of, surely, more
of love, more to understand,
to present something
hopeful, instead, something emblematic
of improved life.
Bebíamos leche con coraje escaso
nacido de nuestra pobreza—
aprendimos de los libros: cada día sugería
su obligación
epistemológica
con mocasines en nuestros pies.
Nuestra supervivencia dependía de fidelidad al ingreso
interno, en la práctica
de mezquindad. Vamos haciendo de
nuestro propio camino—
una cáscara de naranja pudriéndose en la mesa;
el pan se ha endurecido.
Despertamos por visiones, arriesgamos nuestra rendición
al cambio exacto.
Consumimos, pero vivimos en abundancia,
soñando con metamorfosis
y autocontrol
ante claras de huevo.
Acostados en la cama, buscamos en los especiales del día
un indicador de villanía en el mercado.
Tímidamente, medimos nuestros pasos
sobre fundaciones e interpretamos
la latita de pulpo.
En invierno, nuestros calcetines son gruesos.
Agua sobre el brazo, agua en nuestras axilas, agua
sobre nuestros pies en su furia
de piedad recaída. Una mano derecha sondeando
la izquierda, sintiendo su superficie
de manera descoordinada.
En el baño, despreciamos la crema de dientes.
Empezamos a vivir simplemente otra vez
sin sorprendernos por nada
que habríamos producido.
Rendidos a la corriente
de orina en la mañana: linfa
suprimida—el concentrado
escurre su último residuo.
Nos doblamos sobre el colchón, con postura mejorada
en el esfuerzo de pensar, de tener más.
Podremos contar, seguramente, más
de nuestro amor, más para entender,
para presentar algo
esperanzador, algo emblemático, en cambio,
de una vida mejorada.
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I find myself on my feet with fifteen leaves.
Everything carries its own light on the walls.
I woke up to slaughter, my heart opening
to cemeteries of moon—
the parasites, the drizzle. The mud crowning
the undergrowth with immense sadness.
I knew death when I dressed
in my uniform.
I found the index of solitude: my country
in its legal jargon, its piety, its fiction—
Yes. It loves me, really.
I give my blood as the blood of all fish.
Me encuentro de pie con quince hojas.
Brilla todo en los muros.
Desperté en su sacrificio: mi corazón se abría
entre cementerios de luna—
los parásitos, la llovizna. El lodo coronando
la maleza con mustios grandes.
Supe de mi muerte al vestir
de uniforme.
Encontré el índice de soledad: mi país
en su jerga legal, su piedad, su ficción—
Sí. Me quiere, de verdad.
Doy mi sangre como la sangre de todos los peces.
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And out of remorse, I would pay
my debt with medicine—
I’m a Latinist, empirically, with my butane
flame. I would
1. Keep out of all cities
2. Raid the costume shop marvelously for Clarence’s head
3. Speak seditiously in society
—yet I would pull verdicts and revelation from Life.
And on the Internet
I browse for an answer to the coarseness
of the age, the erotics of the West I now give as émigré.
When in doubt, I go to the dictionary.
I put the utensils in the sink.
The fish dressed in newspaper burn in my reply—
two quietly listening minds hush, feeling, constantly, nostalgia
for the world.
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First, we would give in to disloyalty
with slack exchanges.
We were figuring what it might be like to live
knowing, intimately, conflicts with size.
Look, my life is not what I would like it to be.
This year, mornings imply an act of bravery.
Look, the window displays are changing.
We could prove what we have yet to dispraise.
All the males have mated and move on
in the city’s red gloss.
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