Poem
Marcela Parra
The mother’s because I say so
I never knew whymy mother used to wash the sheets
even when they were clean.
I wonder, every time I wake up
when there’s no one home
and I make the bed from inside.
Then, the pijama’s motif crumbles down
and the letters of breakfast die in my mouth.
Desire keeps us taking stock
where there is absolutely nothing
increasing and declining the volume
of charms: a foreign coin, gloves
anonymous identification photographs.
Everything I found lying in the street
is a false clue, and its uses consist
in appointing a portion of space
just in case, because I say.
A sudden desire of growing older
shakes the pillows in this house
which has been refurbished by reflex movements.
My face is slowly drawing on
towards another age
though my hair and teeth fall out
all at once in dreams.
I move the furniture, carrying their bodies
as bells. Throwing the waste of breakfast to the birds
that breakfast served and slurped a moment before
under clean or dusty questions
without visits, dismissals
or the red face of evening.
© Translation: 2015, Erin Stagg
El porque sí de las madres
El porque sí de las madres
Nunca entendí por quémi mamá lavaba las sábanas
aunque estuvieran limpias.
Suelo pensarlo al despertar, cuando no hay nadie
y hago la cama desde adentro. Entonces
los motivos del pijama se desploman
y las letras del desayuno agonizan en la boca.
El deseo nos mantiene
haciendo inventario donde nada hay
subiendo y bajando el volumen
de los amuletos:
la moneda extranjera, un guante
anónimas fotografías de identificación.
Es una pista falsa
todo lo que me encuentro botado en la calle
y su uso consiste en nombrar un espacio
por si acaso, porque sí.
Un súbito deseo de envejecer
sacude las almohadas en esta casa
refaccionada por actos reflejos.
Mi cara avanza lentamente hacia otra edad
aunque en sueños se me caen de golpe el pelo o los dientes.
Corro los muebles, porto sus cuerpos
como campanas. Lanzo a unos pájaros
los escombros del desayuno
sorbido un rato antes bajo preguntas empolvadas o sacudidas
sin salir, sin visitas, sin la cara rojiza de la tarde.
© 2015, Marcela Parra
Poems
Poems of Marcela Parra
Close
The mother’s because I say so
I never knew whymy mother used to wash the sheets
even when they were clean.
I wonder, every time I wake up
when there’s no one home
and I make the bed from inside.
Then, the pijama’s motif crumbles down
and the letters of breakfast die in my mouth.
Desire keeps us taking stock
where there is absolutely nothing
increasing and declining the volume
of charms: a foreign coin, gloves
anonymous identification photographs.
Everything I found lying in the street
is a false clue, and its uses consist
in appointing a portion of space
just in case, because I say.
A sudden desire of growing older
shakes the pillows in this house
which has been refurbished by reflex movements.
My face is slowly drawing on
towards another age
though my hair and teeth fall out
all at once in dreams.
I move the furniture, carrying their bodies
as bells. Throwing the waste of breakfast to the birds
that breakfast served and slurped a moment before
under clean or dusty questions
without visits, dismissals
or the red face of evening.
© 2015, Erin Stagg
The mother’s because I say so
I never knew whymy mother used to wash the sheets
even when they were clean.
I wonder, every time I wake up
when there’s no one home
and I make the bed from inside.
Then, the pijama’s motif crumbles down
and the letters of breakfast die in my mouth.
Desire keeps us taking stock
where there is absolutely nothing
increasing and declining the volume
of charms: a foreign coin, gloves
anonymous identification photographs.
Everything I found lying in the street
is a false clue, and its uses consist
in appointing a portion of space
just in case, because I say.
A sudden desire of growing older
shakes the pillows in this house
which has been refurbished by reflex movements.
My face is slowly drawing on
towards another age
though my hair and teeth fall out
all at once in dreams.
I move the furniture, carrying their bodies
as bells. Throwing the waste of breakfast to the birds
that breakfast served and slurped a moment before
under clean or dusty questions
without visits, dismissals
or the red face of evening.
© 2015, Erin Stagg
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