By the Horns
Like those who dance in a swamp
and do not fear sinking
there are those who draw an abyss
and do not fear falling
like the seam of life
in the body of death
stitch by stitch, the threads will burst
one day the flood will come
so, in the meantime
I think of someone
a persistent image of blood
to take hold of the day
like a bull to his steps
with a knife and closed eyes
piercing with a dirty face
the ravenous glare
from the night of the powerful
who gnaw off our backs
wheat not yet harvested.
Seed
Look into the wind
the direction they float
the leaves
that bear their names
without a care
the gust surges, storms
and so the mistake is made:
open wound on the face
heart
blood that sees
discovers the unknown
whisper of the whirlwind
A hurricane, a downpour:
a tremor
a moment sees itself
devouring the path
axe that carves the trees
Wooded tongue of the world.
Fig and Stale Bread
The fig tree on San Blas street
spans majestically
to another city
at its roots
grows green aloe vera
—I snag some—
the house is for sale
the shutters latched
stealing seems fair
for something that helps
to heal
entrenched scars
that do not fade
and resist
the chemical subjugation
of pharmaceuticals
The skin reacts before
what I do not wish to see
sometimes the eyes
are an old theater
now closed
The answer is within me
I am my own medicine
the diagnosis resides
in the depths of the heart.
This translation was made collaboratively by the students in Denise Kripper’s Literary Translation Workshop at Lake Forest College: Lindsey Contreras, Yasmin Corrales, Shaye Gauthier, Yanna Glaspy, Cassidy Herberth, Nathaniel Kregar, Jared Peterson, Stephanie Salgado, and Teagan Wolf.
