A very beta translation from Antía Otero's -O cuarto das abellas- (Xerais 2016)
I shouldn’t like to die
I shouldn’t like to die
without knowing how many lies I can tell
without you noticing
how many leaves come through the window
in autumn when the world seems to end in every cell
of the honeycomb.
I shouldn’t like to die
without imagining the funeral
what they would wear
the state of the body
the mortician’s hands
covering up the causes of my misfortune
the possibility that dwells between provocation
and chance
I set down that I am to be perfumed, mom,
make sure that among the worms there is the smell of citrus,
placebo for the crawlies
let’s raise a glass to this exquisite corpse
but don’t be hasty
don’t let them come for me so quick
with their mouths like sickles dancing
upon my eyes, rubbing out
the blue
I shouldn’t like to die
without a lady bird
slim as a wicker switch
singing in my ear high notes
I could never reach
with Her, wasting fine powder on sparrows
and for one moment living beyond the possible
our large family our pride we
recycled
the yard birds into meat pies
and wore
all the hand-me-downs of all the siblings who came before
I shouldn’t like to die
without arranging my lovers in order
embracing them, running my hands over their wrinkles
part of them
part
of their soft muscles and gray hair, dyed perhaps
of their cars’ upholstery
of the sons daughters pets wives who are not me
in this bed I am building to shelter them all
to have them near and to kiss them
goodnight
on the forehead
a chance to say
that with time I have forgotten the feeling of their tongues
on my sex
and everything else that once was vital, important
to the story
I shouldn’t like to die
without driving in the desert
jumping rope on a breezy monday
leaving a club in the light of day
already so hungover
bumming a cigarette off the ladies at the market
their cabbages in wicker baskets
taking off my shoes and running
down the street
yelling —I’m asymmetrical—
that I’ve got no cure no cocacola light
that I need you like never before
or that I know I love you
like the characters in the movies
who die
just as they’ve found love
the kind where eyelids relax
and everything seems at once beautiful and unjust
I shouldn’t like to die
without feeling it was worth it
that my daughters will be grateful
for the absence
that the stones I scrubbed
will shine from this side street
I shouldn’t like to die
without raising my hand
to greet death
for such is the pain of the wound yet unmade
days that sculpt the skin
fluids that wipe clean the ground
consciousness in flight
just before
the fall
that leaves no way back
no way to find ourselves
I will remember myself
in post codes
in the grooves
they left behind
I will remember myself
in the times I said no and it cost me
in the times I said yes only to regret it
later
In gazing upon skin
like a cut that opens clean
between here and there
a wound that bleeds
unendingly
inevitably
in a damp room
feet on the verge of slipping
in a leap
between avenues
where the harness belies
all weight
so many arms
ready to grab hold
of something more than air
I will remember myself
in the times I made the sheets taut
and cleared leftovers
from the dinner table
wrapped them in foil
in the times I thought I’d been
somewhere
but only intended to go
I will remember myself
laughing
nails bitten down
bags under my eyes and crystal chiming
when movie houses close
theaters gulp down anemia
and libraries go up in alexandrine flames
I will remember myself
though planting the garden
might be the closest I come to taking communion through my hands
a prayer surrounded by green iron sulphate
while I beat my chest
I repeat three times like Scarlett O’Hara
grandmother, here’s a prayer, here’s the land…I promise I won’t wreck it, I won’t mess this up.
