México, 1970.
Copa del Mundo, cuartos de final.
Inglaterra, dos arriba contra Alemania
y tranquila.
Mi hermano, regodeándose en silencio,
mi padre y yo sumidos
en un silencio rígido, abatido.
Me voy a la cocina
a hacer té,
Alemania descuenta uno.
“Muy poco, muy tarde”
declara mi hermano.
Vuelvo a la cocina,
Alemania iguala.
A mi padre y a mí nos sacan,
pestañeando, a la luz del día.
En tiempo extra,
Müller, ‘Der Bomber’, anota el gol ganador.
Nunca había abrazado a mi padre,
no he vuelto a abrazarlo desde entonces.
Breakthrough
Mexico, 1970.
World Cup, quarter final.
England. two up against West Germany
and cruising.
My brither, quietly gloating,
my father and I plunged
into glum, staring silence.
I go out into the kitchen
to make tea.
West Germany claw one back.
“Too little, too late,”
my brother declares.
I go back to the kitchen,
West Germany equalize.
My father and I are led out,
blinking, into the daylight.
In extra-time,
Müller, ‘Der Bomber’, scores the winner.
I had never hugged my father,
I haven’t hugged him since.
“¡Los libros”
gruñó mi abuelo
“son un sustituto exangüe de la vida!”
La espesa tinta azul de sus venas
coagulando alegremente
en comas, punto y comas
y dos puntos
hacia un repentino y glorioso
punto final.
On His Deathbed My Grandfather Warms Me Against Literature
“Books!”
snarled my grandfather,
“are a bloodless substitute for life.”
The thick blue ink of his veins
clotting happily
into commas, semi-colons
and colons,
towards a sudden and glorious
full stop.
Le doy el saludo comunista
a mi ex novia capitalista
al mismo tiempo que toma la esquina
en su BM negro,
me concede un gesto despectivo
y me deja tragándome
la retórica marxista-leninista
en un penacho de monóxido de carbono.
A Note on The Demise of Communism
I give the Communist salute
to my Capitalist ex-girlfriend
as she takes the corner at a clip
in her black BMW,
doles me out am imperious nod
and leaves me to choke back
Marxist-Leninist rghetoric
in a plume of carbon-monoxide.
Una pena
que la Tierra no sea plana.
Se podría alinear a los pobres
en los bordes
y ametrallarlos
al abismo.
Twenty-One Words for The Security Council
It’s a pity
the Earth isn’t flat.
You could line the poor
along the edges
and machine-gun them
into the abyss.
imagen: womenrulerwriter.blogspot.com
