Poem
Elisa Díaz Castelo
Black Hole
There it was, festering directly,the corpse of the dog
at the center of the garden, of the world.
Its death waited for us
two full nights, shining with thirst
under the useless light of the moon.
I imagine the scene from the window,
the slow transformation of the body
into matter, bone, venomous
air. My eyes
on its slow escape from itself,
tiny star imploding,
black hole at the heart
of the turf, exactly six feet from the fig tree,
its gaunt limbs dancing blindly,
and four from the bird of paradise,
fastened to its stem and always in the throes
of death, impaired at flight, unable
to unfasten itself and turn
scavenger and sate its hunger.
There, in the center of the garden, the world started:
the dog showed me its sinking
into itself and the aloud act
of dying. Since then
my rigorous life orbits, my days, full-closing,
spiral, around the particular spot
of its body. And it swallows my past,
devouring works and days,
the garden and its house that no longer
exist, the weekend meals,
the toothless piano and Grandma
sitting at her dresser with her perfumes,
each vial, each smell darkened,
the plates suspended, turning
around the enormous gravity of that center,
where my whole dim life falls:
every hour and day that has left me,
every year and forever to come.
© Translation: 2019, Elisa Díaz Castelo
Agujero negro
Agujero negro
Ahí estabael cadáver del perro
en el centro del jardín.
Nos esperó su muerte
las dos noches, brillando de sed
bajo la luz inútil de la luna.
Imagino la escena desde la ventana,
la lenta transformación del cuerpo
en materia, en hueso, en aire
venenoso. Mis ojos
sobre su lenta huida de sí mismo,
implosión de estrella diminuta,
agujero negro en el corazón
del pasto, a dos metros exactos
del ave del paraíso,
atada a su tallo y moribunda,
impedida para el vuelo, imposible
soltar amarras y convertirse
en ave carroñera y saciar su hambre.
Ahí, en el centro del jardín, empezó el mundo:
me mostró el perro su destiempo, su hundirse
en sí mismo y el acto a voz en cuello
de la muerte. Desde entonces
gira mi vida rigurosa, mis días en ciernes
espirales, en torno al sitio exacto
de su cuerpo. Y éste se traga mi pasado,
devora días y obras,
el jardín y su casa que hace años no existen,
las comidas de domingo,
el piano desdentado y la abuela
sentada al tocador con sus perfumes,
cada frasco, cada olor ennegrecido,
la vajilla suspendida, girando
ante la gravedad enorme de ese centro,
en el que se desliza sin luz toda mi vida
y las horas y días que se han ido
y los años que me faltan
para siempre.
© 2018, Elisa Díaz Castelo
From: Principia
Publisher: FETA, Mexico, DF
From: Principia
Publisher: FETA, Mexico, DF
Poems
Poems of Elisa Díaz Castelo
Close
Black Hole
There it was, festering directly,the corpse of the dog
at the center of the garden, of the world.
Its death waited for us
two full nights, shining with thirst
under the useless light of the moon.
I imagine the scene from the window,
the slow transformation of the body
into matter, bone, venomous
air. My eyes
on its slow escape from itself,
tiny star imploding,
black hole at the heart
of the turf, exactly six feet from the fig tree,
its gaunt limbs dancing blindly,
and four from the bird of paradise,
fastened to its stem and always in the throes
of death, impaired at flight, unable
to unfasten itself and turn
scavenger and sate its hunger.
There, in the center of the garden, the world started:
the dog showed me its sinking
into itself and the aloud act
of dying. Since then
my rigorous life orbits, my days, full-closing,
spiral, around the particular spot
of its body. And it swallows my past,
devouring works and days,
the garden and its house that no longer
exist, the weekend meals,
the toothless piano and Grandma
sitting at her dresser with her perfumes,
each vial, each smell darkened,
the plates suspended, turning
around the enormous gravity of that center,
where my whole dim life falls:
every hour and day that has left me,
every year and forever to come.
© 2019, Elisa Díaz Castelo
From: Principia
From: Principia
Black Hole
There it was, festering directly,the corpse of the dog
at the center of the garden, of the world.
Its death waited for us
two full nights, shining with thirst
under the useless light of the moon.
I imagine the scene from the window,
the slow transformation of the body
into matter, bone, venomous
air. My eyes
on its slow escape from itself,
tiny star imploding,
black hole at the heart
of the turf, exactly six feet from the fig tree,
its gaunt limbs dancing blindly,
and four from the bird of paradise,
fastened to its stem and always in the throes
of death, impaired at flight, unable
to unfasten itself and turn
scavenger and sate its hunger.
There, in the center of the garden, the world started:
the dog showed me its sinking
into itself and the aloud act
of dying. Since then
my rigorous life orbits, my days, full-closing,
spiral, around the particular spot
of its body. And it swallows my past,
devouring works and days,
the garden and its house that no longer
exist, the weekend meals,
the toothless piano and Grandma
sitting at her dresser with her perfumes,
each vial, each smell darkened,
the plates suspended, turning
around the enormous gravity of that center,
where my whole dim life falls:
every hour and day that has left me,
every year and forever to come.
© 2019, Elisa Díaz Castelo
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