| Translated by Robin Myers Read and listen to the poem in its original Spanish. I don't understand how we walk around the world as if there were a single way for each of us, a kind of life stamped into us like a childhood injection, a cure painstakingly released into the blood with every passing year like a poison transmuted into antidote against any possible disobedience that might awaken in the body. But the body isn't mere submissive matter, a mouth that cleanly swallows whatever it's fed. It's a lattice of little filaments, as I imagine threads of starlight must be. What can never be touched: that's the body. What lives outside the law when the law is muscled and violent, a boulder plunging off a precipice and crushing everything in its path. How do they manage to wander around so happily and comfortably in their bodies, how do they feel so sure, so confident in being what they are: this blood, these organs, this sex, this species? Haven't they ever longed to be a lizard scorching in the sun every day, or an old man, or a vine clutching a trunk in search of somewhere to hold on, or a boy sprinting till his heart bursts from his chest with sheer brute energy, with sheer desire? We're forced to be whatever we resemble. Haven't you ever wished you knew what it would feel like to have claws or roots or fins instead of hands, what it would mean if you could only live in silence or by murmuring or crying out in pain or fear or pleasure? Or if there weren't any words at all and so the soul of every living thing were measured by the intensity it manifests once it's set free? © 2019 Claudia Masin and Robin Myers. Published in Poem-a-Day in partnership with Words Without Borders (wordswithoutborders.org) on September 28, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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