A translation: "Acaroábanse caóticas as cunchas" by Isaac Xubín

A chaotic convention of shells



The horse and I
lie upon the Boireann,
exhausted,
hiding from words,
licking the thick night mist
from the stones broken by our hips,
by our thighs.
Then, a chaotic convention,
a frenzied convocation of shells,
the broken bodies of mollusks bathed by the waves,
and a vision of nacre in my eyes that carries to my glands
the smells,
the taste of the sea;
lying with aching loins beneath the lemon tree,
the pleasure of eating till my body becomes
no match for its own desires, the tip of the tongue
seeking the last salty flashes
that rise from the tautness of our skin, and other treasures
like horsehair and a wild musky smell
that reminds me
of the feeling of impunity that used to take hold of me
when I snuck out of the house at night.

Because perhaps this journey
was nothing more than an ancient barb
etched in my genetic code,
an ancestral rite that grabbed me from the inside and made me want
to feel this land’s saliva
rising through me every night,
to feel in my roiling fevered groin the fresh sweat
of our bodies’
animal
combustion.

[translated from Galician.]


[info about the author here]