English translation below
ENTONCES
Ella era mi mundo, mi guía, la parcela sin cultivar que nunca te abandona.
Me llevó un día, azul con borlas blancas, a comer hamburguesas a un local de carretera.
Ese olor, esa vista, esas formas voluptuosas que aun hoy me llenan la boca de balas, me envolvieron, intensas, el cuerpo infantil.
Frutas, hierbas, proteínas.
La fila, larga como madrugada, se interponía con voz granosa entre mi estancia aturdida y mi futuro singular.
Ya, ya, dijo ella, no todos miran con tus ojos la pasión estival.
Días enteros pasaron ante mi impaciencia, caracolas de pasado atávico sumergidas entre sombras de kelp.
Y entonces, una luz inmensa: en el medio del caos, una máquina con pelotas saltarinas.
Todo desapareció bajo el manto luminoso de esa promesa; ya no importaban el hambre, las joyas o el futuro. Todo es nada cuando se bebe de ese cáliz agitado.
Un relámpago me devolvió al presente.
Quiero una, le dije a ella.
No, contestó concisa.
Enormes nubarrones aparecieron, interponiendo dagas de rencor.
Quiero una, lancé de nuevo, no conforme con la pauta.
Somos pobres, dijo entonces, no cedemos a runas ni a diáfanas promesas. No volamos ni cantamos alabanzas.
Quiero una, terca voz agrandada, porque el mar se seca y la tarde se apaga. Quiero una aunque la calma sucumba ante la ira. Quiero una porque pronto el volcán arrasará con el espíritu y las cigarras contarán la historia. Quiero una, una sola, y el devenir caerá, diáspora sarracena, vela encendida, baile de zanfona.
Ríos de agua negra invadieron sus pupilas. Un diluvio de cantera destrozó su piel adulta. Flechas largas de obsidiana rompieron el oxígeno entre nosotros. Flor violenta, luz asidua, paz inquieta. Intermitencia aguda, mano fatua. Caos que guarda un poco de ansiedad.
He aquí la gracia de tu orgullo, me dijo, y mostró la palma de la mano: nunca vi tesoro alguno que le igualara: redonda, brillante como el sol: corazón de níquel, alma de cobre, piel de aluminio: una moneda: la raíz, la razón y la locura acumulada en cromo: 18 gramos de banalidad.
Tómala, dijo, y abandona la realildad, retira el velo que te hace mío.
Cascada, río, océano.
Blande la miasma y cumple tu deseo. Corre, arguye la furia. Korda, Klinsmann, Maradona.
Tomé la pieza, mitra inmaculada, y lancé petardos de alegría. Ciclos bastos de opulencia, clamor rotundo de oro y plata.
Y entonces, la ranura misteriosa cerró su exclusa florentina, destrozó con su desidia mi lúbrica ignorancia.
Yo no quiero tu moneda, sentí que me gritaba, solo quiero tu locura, tu fugaz balandronada, carpo, fruto, metatarso, y el resto de tu vida sea cual sea el resultado.
Nunca tuve una pelota, nunca como aquella, y hoy que vago, que imploro, que denuesto ese pasado indecoroso, llevo unida al pecho esa ranura, vianda, elevada pitonisa, imposible sensación de cielo, risa y argucia.
—Mauricio León
BACK THEN
Back then, the sky was so big that everything fit in, fierce and elaborate.
She was my world, my guide, the uncultivated plot that never leaves you.
One day, blue with white tassels, she took me to eat hamburgers at a roadside joint.
That smell, that sight, those voluptuous shapes that even today fill my mouth with bullets, intensely enveloped my child’s body.
Fruits, herbs, proteins.
The line, long as dawn, stood, with grainy voice, between my dazed stay and my singular future.
Now, now, she said, not everyone looks at summer passion with your unique eyes.
Entire days passed before my impatience; shells of an atavistic past submerged among shadows of kelp.
And then, an immense light: in the middle of the chaos, a machine with bouncy balls.
Everything disappeared under the luminous cloak of that promise; Hunger, jewels or the future no longer mattered. Everything is nothing when you drink from that shaken chalice.
A flash of lightning brought me back to the present.
I want one, I told her.
No, she answered concisely.
Huge storm clouds appeared, interposing daggers of resentment.
I want one, I launched again, not conforming to the guideline.
We are poor, she said then, we do not give in to runes or clear promises. We don’t fly or sing praises.
I want one, stubborn, bigger voice, because the sea dries up and the afternoon fades away. I want one even if calm succumbs to anger. I want one because soon the volcano will destroy the spirit and the cicadas will tell the story. I want one, just one, and the future will fall, Saracen diaspora, lit candle, hurdy-gurdy dance.
Rivers of black water invaded her pupils. A quarry deluge destroyed her adult skin. Long obsidian arrows broke the oxygen between us. Violent flower, assiduous light, restless peace. Sharp intermittence, fatuous hand. Chaos that holds a little anxiety.
Here is the grace of your pride, she told me, and showed the palm of her hand: I never saw any treasure that could equal it: round, bright as the sun: heart of nickel, soul of copper, skin of aluminum: a coin: the root, reason and madness accumulated in chrome: 18 grams of banality.
Take it, she said, and abandon reality, remove the veil that makes you mine.
Waterfall, river, ocean.
Wield the miasma and fulfill your wish. Run, argue the fury. Korda, Klinsmann, Maradona.
I took the piece, immaculate miter, and set off firecrackers of joy. Coarse cycles of opulence, resounding clamor of gold and silver.
And then, the mysterious slot closed its Florentine lock, destroyed my lubricious ignorance with its reluctance.
I don’t want your coin, I felt like it was shouting at me, I just want your madness, your fleeting swagger, carpus, fruit, metatarsus, and the rest of your life whatever the outcome.
I never had a ball, never like that one, and today that I wander, that I implore, that I denounce that unseemly past, I carry attached to my chest that slot, delicacy, elevated pythoness, impossible sensation of heaven, laughter and trickery.
—Mauricio León
English translation by the author & M. Iracheta