comia meio de lado
e nem estava mais velho.
O barulho da comida
na boca, me acalentava,
me dava uma grande paz,
um sentimento esquisito
de que tudo foi um sonho,
vestido não há … nem nada.
Minhas filhas, eis que ouço
vosso pai subindo a escada.
STORY OF THE DRESS
Mother, whose dress is that,
hanging on that nail?
Daughters, that’s the dress
of a woman who passed.
When did she pass, Mother?
Was she someone we knew?
Daughters, be still,
your father’s almost here.
Mother, tell us quickly
whose dress is that dress.
Dear daughters, the body
that wore it is cold.
That dress, on that nail,
is dead, in peace.
Dear mother, that dress,
so much lace, that secret!
Dear daughters, listen
to the words from my lips.
Your father fell in love
with a woman from far away.
And he so lost his senses
that he forgot all about us,
forgot about all life,
closed up, consumed himself.
He cried on his plate of meat,
he drank, he quarreled and beat me,
and he left me with your cradle
for the woman from far away,
but the woman was indifferent.
In vain your father implored.
He’d give her a farm, a car,
his life insurance, gold,
he’d drink her dregs,
he’d lick her shoes.
But the woman was indifferent.
And so your father, enraged,
asked me to ask her,
that perverse woman,
if she would be forbearing
and go to bed with him …
Mother, why are you crying?
Take our handkerchief.
Daughters, let’s act normal,
your father’s in the courtyard.
Mother, we don’t hear
any feet on the stairs.
Daughters, I went and found
that woman of the devil.
And I begged her to quench
my husband’s desire.
I don’t love your husband,
she said to me, laughing,
but if it’s your wish,
I can stay with him,
to please you, not me,
as I don’t want a man.
I looked at your father,
whose eyes were pleading.
I looked at the vile woman,
whose eyes were smirking.
Her fancy lace dress,
with its neck cut very low,
showed more than it hid
of that sinner woman’s body.
I crossed myself,
I bowed … said yes.
I left thinking of death,
but death didn’t come.
I walked the five streets,
I crossed the bridge, the river,
I went to see your relatives,
I didn’t eat or talk,
I caught a malarial fever,
but death didn’t come.
My life was out of danger,
my hair turned white,
I lost my teeth, my eyesight,
I sewed, washed clothes, made sweets,
my hands turned red and raw,
I gave up all my rings,
my gold chain paid
the pharmacy bill.
Your father was lost in the world.
The world is large and small.
One day the haughty woman
showed up with nothing to show,
poor, broken, hapless,
her bundle in her hand.
Madam, she said softly,
your husband I can’t give you,
I don’t know where he is.
But I’m giving you this dress,
my last piece of finery,
which I kept as a reminder
of that day of the serpent,
that great humiliation.
At first I didn’t love him,
love came to me later.
But then he lost all interest,
admitting he only liked me
the way I was before.
I threw myself at his feet,
used every charm I knew,
rubbed my face in the ground,
pulled on my hair,
jumped into the stream,
cut myself with a penknife,
hurled myself into the sewer,
drank gall and gasoline,
prayed two hundred novenas,
all in vain. Your husband,
madam, has vanished.
Here’s the piece of clothing
that recalls my wrongful deed
of demeaning a married woman
by trampling her pride.
Take from me this dress
and grant me your forgiveness.
I looked into her face:
where were the sparkling eyes?
where the alluring smile?
where the camellia collar?
where that dainty waist
as shapely as it was slim?
where the tiny feet
with satin sandals?
I looked at her intently,
my lips said not a word.
I took the dress and hung it
on that nail in the wall.
She quietly snuck away,
and coming down the road
I already saw your father.
He looked at me in silence,
barely noticed the dress,
and said only: Wife,
put one more plate on the table.
I did so, he sat down,
ate, and wiped his sweat.
He was the very same man,
eating half-turned in his chair,
and he hadn’t even aged.
The sound of the food
in his mouth soothed me,
gave me great peace,
a very strange feeling
that this was all a dream,
there is no dress … no nothing.
Enough, dear daughters, I hear
your father climbing the stairs.
VIDA MENOR
A fuga do real,
ainda mais longe a fuga do feérico,
mais longe de tudo, a fuga de si mesmo,
a fuga da fuga, o exílio
sem água e palavra, a perda
voluntária de amor e memória,
o eco
já não correspondendo ao apelo, e este fundindo-se,
a mão tornando-se enorme e desaparecendo
desfigurada, todos os gestos afinal impossíveis,
senão inúteis,
a desnecessidade do canto, a limpeza
da cor, nem braço a mover-se nem unha crescendo.
Não a morte, contudo.
Mas a vida: captada em sua forma irredutível,
já sem ornato ou comentário melódico,
vida a que aspiramos como paz no cansaço
(não a morte),
vida mínima, essencial; um início; um sono;
menos que terra, sem calor; sem ciência nem ironia;
o que se possa desejar de menos crueclass="underline" vida
em que o ar, não respirado, mas me envolva;
nenhum gasto de tecidos; ausência deles;
confusão entre manhã e tarde, já sem dor,
porque o tempo não mais se divide em seções; o tempo
elidido, domado.
Não o morto nem o eterno ou o divino,
apenas o vivo, o pequenino, calado, indiferente
e solitário vivo.
Isso eu procuro.
LESSER LIFE
Flight from reality.
Farther stilclass="underline" flight from fantasy.
Farther than anything: flight from oneself,
flight from flight, exile
without water or words, the voluntary
loss of love and memory,
the echo
no longer linked to the call, and the call getting slurred,
the hand larger and larger, shapeless,
gone, all gestures finally impossible,
if not futile,
the song gratuitous, color cleansed
of all color, with no arm moving or fingernail growing.