Frío consuelo (+1)
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| Fotografía de Aino Kannisto |
FRÍO CONSUELO
Cuando mi madre murió
uno de sus pasteles de miel permaneció en el congelador.
No podría soportar verlo desaparecer,
así que esperó, perdonó
en su cueva de hielo detrás de las bandejas de metal
por dos años más
En mi cuadragésimo primer cumpleaños
Lo saqué
una resurrección rectangular
sopesé el peso muerto en mi palma.
Antes de que se descongelara,
corté con cuchillo de sierra
la más delgada de las rebanadas-
Eucaristía judía.
Los cuadrados ambarinos
con sus cristales traslúcidos de nueces
probado – incluso tostado – de congelador,
de escarcha,
un manjar con pasas entregado
de una tienda de delicatessen en el inframundo.
Anhelaba recordar la vida, no la muerte.
el cuerpo inmóvil en su camisón rosa en la cama,
como me recuesto en la cuna poco profunda de las sábanas dispersas
después de que se la llevaron
inhalando su aroma por última vez.
Cierro los ojos, saboreo una oblea de
pastel sagrado en mi lengua y
trato de saborear a mi madre, para discernir
el mensaje que ella horneó en estos panes
cuando estaba demasiado enferma para comerlos:
Te quiero.
Terminará.
Deja algo de dulzura
y sustancia
en la boca del mundo.
COLD SOLACE
When my mother died,
one of her honey cakes remained in the freezer.
I couldn’t bear to see it vanish,
so it waited, pardoned,
in its ice cave behind the metal trays
for two more years.
On my forty-first birthday
I chipped it out,
a rectangular resurrection,
hefted the dead weight in my palm.
Before it thawed,
I sawed, with serrated knife,
the thinnest of slices —
Jewish Eucharist.
The amber squares
with their translucent panes of walnuts
tasted — even toasted — of freezer,
of frost,
a raisined delicacy delivered up
from a deli in the underworld.
I yearned to recall life, not death —
the still body in her pink nightgown on the bed,
how I lay in the shallow cradle of the scattered sheets
after they took it away,
inhaling her scent one last time.
I close my eyes, savor a wafer of
sacred cake on my tongue and
try to taste my mother, to discern
the message she baked in these loaves
when she was too ill to eat them:
I love you.
It will end.
Leave something of sweetness
and substance
in the mouth of the world.
SE BUSCA TRADUCTOR/A
FLIGHT
A robin slammed
into my window last night
with a sound like a shot.
The room shook
as she flew full throttle
into a mirage of clear blue freedom,
only to meet a blow equal to her power.
I ran to find her on her back,
wildly thrashing, her tail
a flashing gray fan
against red bricks,
her legs bent awry,
before she stilled.
My heart broke a little,
caught again
between love and helplessness.
I thought of my mother
watching me soar into first marriage,
knowing the danger.
At the wedding, her face betrayed
her fear it was a funeral.
Nonetheless, unasked she’d cooked for days,
platters of her flaky piroshki,
thin buckwheat blini
with sour cream and caviar.
At times our loved ones fly,
fueled by fervor
and innocence, towards a phantom.
Do we hold our hearts open?
Do we stand at our stoves for them?
Can we love ourselves, give thanks,
when we stand again on wobbly legs,
shake our wings, head for
another piece of sky?
Do we pray for the robin
who collided too soon, too hard,
who lay cold and alone,
carried off by a predator in the night?
(Estados Unidos, 1949)
Reside en Sebastopol, California
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Publicado originalmente en THE SUN, 2010
Leído en THE MARGINALIAN
(Fuente: Emma Gunst)
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