WE NEVER DROVE a flock.

All we could do was meet from time to time
and talk about our singlehood.

              We never
mounted sorrel mares. We wandered two by two,
shoeing each other, testing spurs,
convening in the pain of speed.

    We never
dressed in checkered shirts or cowboy hats;
we were confused by nakedness, mistrusted
our bodies in our underwear.

           We never
married or had children.
We could imagine being the owners
of a neutered pet, a house with lofty ceilings.

                          We never
lived a love behind closed doors.
We were perceivable, an anecdote, even for everyone.

                                                    We never
climbed a mountain, never
fished for river trout.

          You’ll never
grate my ears by playing the harmonica.

                                        You’ll never
split my lip.

      But we can call each other
on the eve of Independence Day, and neigh, and paw the ground,
and lose our minds in some controlled environment.

NUNCA PASTOREAMOS un rebaño.

NUNCA PASTOREAMOS un rebaño.

Sólo podíamos reunirnos
para hablar de nuestra soltería.

                                                Nunca
montamos alazanes. Íbamos de dos en dos,
herrándonos, probando espuelas
para convenir en el dolor de la velocidad.

                                                                 Nunca
vestimos camisa a cuadros ni sombrero ranchero:
nos confundía la desnudez y desconfiábamos
del cuerpo con ropa interior.

                                           Nunca
nos casamos ni tuvimos hijos.
Nos imaginamos dueños de una mascota
estéril y una casa de techos altos.

                                                   Nunca
tuvimos una historia oculta de amor.
Fuimos visibles, anecdóticos, incluso para todos.

                                                                            Nunca
escalamos montañas ni nos metimos a pescar
truchas en el río.

                         Nunca
tocarás mal una armónica.

                                        Nunca
me romperás la boca.

                                 Pero podemos llamarnos la noche
del quince de septiembre, piafar o relinchar,
perder la cabeza en ambientes controlados.