Ricardo Domeneck
LETTER TO THE FATHER
Now that my lord
more closely resembles a hunk
of meat with two eyes
turned toward the dark ceiling
from the gurney where likely
you will not die alone
only because not even able
to swallow your saliva
yourself in the company
of this tube alone
that feeds you
I ask myself
if mother's ban
against confessing
to my lord the amorous habits
of my mucous membranes
is still in place
and if indeed you would love me
the less you knew about
how much rubbing they'd already had
that did not befit them
biological or religious
-ly and also if
you would want for your boyess
the death you wished
on so many of my kind
when they appeared on screen
on Globo Record
Manchete or SBT
which always constituted
your umbilical connection
to tradition
and if indeed you would
make come upon them
great destruction
by the violence
of your raging slurs
typical of a macho man
born in a remote town
in this country of machos
remote and broken
in their false pride
believing that a father
is he who crams
refrigerators full and does
not let the table want for
food to nourish
the same mucous membranes
in which your blood
but not your God
runs thick
and now in this broken gurney
your brain all veins
like rivulets bent on
running
outside the lines
if my lord
knew how
I'd stained the patriarchs'
table with deceit
I still ask myself
if you would welcome
me as meekly
as you accept a kiss
on the forehead from
your boyess
who is nothing more
than your own image
and likeness inverted
a mirror such
as reflects opposites
of gender and religion
or the cartoon
from my childhood
of a Hall of Justice
where on a screen
you could watch a world gone wrong
and if the Father and father
indeed scorn
one created by the norms
of Biology and Religion
yet later corrected
after flaunting the laws
the Father and the father
impose on us in the science
of being all of us flawed
on this Earth where procreating
is so common
it brings pleasure
not at all and I look at
my lord
with these pupils
that maybe never
reflect the Father
but now see the father
I
also a hunk
of meat
with two eyes
ask forgiveness
in silence
for at least I can
say there is no more time
and nevertheless
and even still
and although
and yet
for conflicted fear
of possibly shaking
a rudimentary system
of foundation
holding up this house
holding up this room
holding up this borrowed
hospital
bed
I once again
choose
silence
BRIEF AAN DE VADER
Nu u
steeds meer lijkt op een stuk
vlees met twee ogen
gericht op het donkere plafond
in het bed waarin u waarschijnlijk
alleen niet alleen hoeft te sterven
omdat u zelfs uw eigen
speeksel niet alleen zal
kunnen slikken alleen in het gezelschap
van die sonde
die u voedt
vraag ik me af of het
verbod van de moeder
nog geldig is om u de
liefdesgewoonten op
te biechten van de slijm-
vliezen die de mijne zijn
en of u mij waarlijk zoveel
minder had liefgehad indien u
geweten had hoeveel wrijving
ze al hadden gekend die
biologisch of gods-
dienstig niet in hen paste
en of u ook voor uw jongen-
meisje de dood zou vragen
die u al die lui van mijn slag
toewenste als ze op het scherm
kwamen van de Globo van de Record
van de Manchete van de SBT
die altijd uw navelstreng
met de traditie
zouden vormen
en als u werkelijk
de grote vernietiging
over hen zou doen vallen
door het geweld
waarmee u uw scheld-
woorden brulde
die de macho typeren
afkomstig uit het binnenland
van dit land van binnenvetters
macho’s in hun
gebrekkige trots gebroken
en die geloven dat de vader
degene is die koelkasten
volstouwt en niet toelaat
dat het voedende voedsel
op tafel ontbreekt
dezelfde slijmvliezen
waarin uw bloed
stroomt
maar niet uw God
en nu gebroken in dit bed
de hersenen in aders
als beekjes die koppig
buiten hun oevers doorstromen
als u
het opzet zou kennen
waarmee ik de
tafel van alle
patriarchen bevuilde
ik vraag me nog altijd
af of u me zou ontvangen
met de zachtheid
die uw voorhoofd balsemt
de kus van deze uw jongen-
meisje die niets meer is
dan uw omgekeerde
beeld en gelijkenis
zoals een spiegel
die de tegenpolen
van geslacht en religie
zou weerkaatsen of de teken-
film in de kindertijd
van een Gerechtszaal
waar je op een doek
een omgekeerde wereld
kon zien
en of de Vader en de vader
waarlijk het voortbrengsel
haatten van de normen
van de Biologie of de Religie
maar later bestierd
in de overtreding van de wetten
die de Vader of de vader
ons opleggen in de wetenschap
dat wij allemaal gebrekkigen
zijn op deze Aarde waar
voortbrengen zo frequent is
dat het geen enkel
genot verwekt en ik kijk
naar u
met deze pupillen
die wellicht nooit
de Vader weerspiegelen
maar nu de vader zien
ik-
zelf stuk
vlees
met twee ogen
ik vraag in stilte
vergiffenis
want ik kan op zijn
minst zeggen dat er geen
tijd meer is
en zelfs zo
en hoewel
en niet desondanks
en niettemin
door de strijdige angst
van misschien een
rudimentair systeem
te ondermijnen
van fundamenten
onder het huis
onder de kamer
onder dit geleende
ziekenhuis-
bed
verkies ik
nog maar eens
de stilte
Publisher: 2022, Voor het eerst gepubliceerd op PoetryInternational.com,
CARTA AO PAI
Agora que o senhor
mais assemelha pedaço
de carne com dois olhos
dirigidos ao teto escuro
no leito em que provável
só não há-de morrer só
porque nem a própria
saliva poderá engolir
por si na companhia
somente desta sonda
que o alimenta
me pergunto se ainda
em validade a proibição
da mãe em confessar
ao senhor os hábitos
amorosos das mucosas
que são minhas
e se deveras me amaria
tanto menos soubesse
quanta fricção já tiveram
que não lhes cabia
biológica ou religiosa
-mente e se também
pediria para sua filhoa
a morte que desejou
a tantos de minha laia
quando surgiam na tela
da Glboo da Record
da Manchete do SBT
que sempre constituíram
seu cordão umbilical
com a tradição
e se deveras faria
sobrevir a eles
grande destruição
pela violência
com que urrava
seus xingamentos
típicos de macho
nascido no interior
desse pais de machos
interiores e quebrados
em seus orgulhos falhos
de crer que o pai
é o que abarrota
geladeiras e não deixa
que falte à mesa
o alimento que nutre
as mesmas mucosas
em que corre
o seu sangre
mas não seu Deus
e ora neste leito partido
o cérebro em veias
como riachos insistentes
em correr
fora das margens
se o senhor
soubesse o dolo
com que manchei
a mesa
de todos os patriarcas
ainda pergunto-me
se me receberia
com a mansidão
que aceita na testa
o beijo desta sua filhoa
que nada mais é
que a sua imagem
e semelhança invertidas
tal espelho
que refletisse opostos
de gênero e religião
ou o desenho
animado na infância
de uma Sala de Justiça
onde numa tela
podia-se observar
um mundo ao avesso
e se o Pai e o pai
odeiam deveras
o gerado nas normas
da Biologia e Religião
mais tarde porém geridos
na transgressão das leis
que o Pai e o pai
impõem-nos na ciência
de sermos todos falhos
nessa Terra onde procriar
é tão frequente
que gere prazer
nenhum e olho
o senhor
com essas pupilas
que talvez jamais
reflitam o Pai
mas ora veem o pai
eu
mesmo pedaço
de carne
com dois olhos
peço perdão
em silêncio
pois sequer posso
dizer que não
mais há tempo
e mesmo assim
e porém
e no entanto
e contudo
pelo medo adversativo
de talvez abalar
uma sistema rudimentar
de alicerces
sob a casa
sob o quarto
sob esta cama
de hospital
emprestada
escolho
uma vez mais
o silêncio
LETTER TO THE FATHER
Now that my lord
more closely resembles a hunk
of meat with two eyes
turned toward the dark ceiling
from the gurney where likely
you will not die alone
only because not even able
to swallow your saliva
yourself in the company
of this tube alone
that feeds you
I ask myself
if mother's ban
against confessing
to my lord the amorous habits
of my mucous membranes
is still in place
and if indeed you would love me
the less you knew about
how much rubbing they'd already had
that did not befit them
biological or religious
-ly and also if
you would want for your boyess
the death you wished
on so many of my kind
when they appeared on screen
on Globo Record
Manchete or SBT
which always constituted
your umbilical connection
to tradition
and if indeed you would
make come upon them
great destruction
by the violence
of your raging slurs
typical of a macho man
born in a remote town
in this country of machos
remote and broken
in their false pride
believing that a father
is he who crams
refrigerators full and does
not let the table want for
food to nourish
the same mucous membranes
in which your blood
but not your God
runs thick
and now in this broken gurney
your brain all veins
like rivulets bent on
running
outside the lines
if my lord
knew how
I'd stained the patriarchs'
table with deceit
I still ask myself
if you would welcome
me as meekly
as you accept a kiss
on the forehead from
your boyess
who is nothing more
than your own image
and likeness inverted
a mirror such
as reflects opposites
of gender and religion
or the cartoon
from my childhood
of a Hall of Justice
where on a screen
you could watch a world gone wrong
and if the Father and father
indeed scorn
one created by the norms
of Biology and Religion
yet later corrected
after flaunting the laws
the Father and the father
impose on us in the science
of being all of us flawed
on this Earth where procreating
is so common
it brings pleasure
not at all and I look at
my lord
with these pupils
that maybe never
reflect the Father
but now see the father
I
also a hunk
of meat
with two eyes
ask forgiveness
in silence
for at least I can
say there is no more time
and nevertheless
and even still
and although
and yet
for conflicted fear
of possibly shaking
a rudimentary system
of foundation
holding up this house
holding up this room
holding up this borrowed
hospital
bed
I once again
choose
silence
LETTER TO THE FATHER
Now that my lord
more closely resembles a hunk
of meat with two eyes
turned toward the dark ceiling
from the gurney where likely
you will not die alone
only because not even able
to swallow your saliva
yourself in the company
of this tube alone
that feeds you
I ask myself
if mother's ban
against confessing
to my lord the amorous habits
of my mucous membranes
is still in place
and if indeed you would love me
the less you knew about
how much rubbing they'd already had
that did not befit them
biological or religious
-ly and also if
you would want for your boyess
the death you wished
on so many of my kind
when they appeared on screen
on Globo Record
Manchete or SBT
which always constituted
your umbilical connection
to tradition
and if indeed you would
make come upon them
great destruction
by the violence
of your raging slurs
typical of a macho man
born in a remote town
in this country of machos
remote and broken
in their false pride
believing that a father
is he who crams
refrigerators full and does
not let the table want for
food to nourish
the same mucous membranes
in which your blood
but not your God
runs thick
and now in this broken gurney
your brain all veins
like rivulets bent on
running
outside the lines
if my lord
knew how
I'd stained the patriarchs'
table with deceit
I still ask myself
if you would welcome
me as meekly
as you accept a kiss
on the forehead from
your boyess
who is nothing more
than your own image
and likeness inverted
a mirror such
as reflects opposites
of gender and religion
or the cartoon
from my childhood
of a Hall of Justice
where on a screen
you could watch a world gone wrong
and if the Father and father
indeed scorn
one created by the norms
of Biology and Religion
yet later corrected
after flaunting the laws
the Father and the father
impose on us in the science
of being all of us flawed
on this Earth where procreating
is so common
it brings pleasure
not at all and I look at
my lord
with these pupils
that maybe never
reflect the Father
but now see the father
I
also a hunk
of meat
with two eyes
ask forgiveness
in silence
for at least I can
say there is no more time
and nevertheless
and even still
and although
and yet
for conflicted fear
of possibly shaking
a rudimentary system
of foundation
holding up this house
holding up this room
holding up this borrowed
hospital
bed
I once again
choose
silence
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