my kin, my ripe bushel of apples,
orcharding, my wealth:  Neelo
with the round face & always on
some kind of exercise routine.  Lubnah
name dripping silk, honey, a fat drop
of yogurt & blueberry.  Lubnah  who i haven’t
seen in years but then looks up at me
from the photo in my baby album,  Khudejha,
who left me when i told my truth, who i knew
my words landed on like a knife, though
i did all i could to cut with flowers, bouquet
after bouquet.  Ruquia,  who i left & missed
with each footstep, would wake in the night
confused, calling her name. the years makes
long our distance, when i see her again
we’re strangers, talking about the people
in our lives like they’re characters in a tv show.
our worlds, fiction to each other, the raging
ocean between us, a murder of marine
life. cut me open & there they are: the ones
who left me, the ones i left, the roots
that ground me, the wind combing
my hair. &  Mamun,  who scared
me across the country for a decade, scattered
me like a seed. i still dream of the world
where i could’ve been his daughter. my ripe.
my beautiful apple. i still dream
of the world where he calls & i answer.

^{for my mother}

This one moment I loved: you
in the air, permed hair flying
wild in the rain, around and through
and not a thought of us dying

in the air, permed hair flying
against the storm, lashing hot rain
and not a thought of us dying,
strapped in the plastic car, chained

against the storm lashing hot rain
on our faces as we’re hurled up,
strapped in the plastic car, chain
clouds glowing, whirling—the gust

on our faces as we’re hurled up,
launched into the electric
clouds glowing whirling, the gust
as you laughed and laughed. It’s

launched into the electric,
wild in the rain, around and through
as you laughed and laughed—it’s
this one moment I loved you.

^{translated from the Spanish by Leo Boix}

I have built a garden, as one makes
the right gestures in the wrong place.
Misplaced—not an error, but a being elsewhere,
like speaking with the mirror’s reflection
and not with the one who looks through it.
I have built a garden to speak there,
elbow to elbow in beauty, with death—always mute
yet active—working at the heart.
Leave the luggage behind, she repeated, now that your body
glimpses both shores—there is nothing,
the precise gestures
to let oneself go, to care for it,
and to be, the garden.
Treasure what you lose, she said—this death
speaking in flawless, distant Castilian.
What you lose, while you still have it, is the sole companion
that draws you close to the far shore of death.

Now language may loosen itself to speak.
She who never could wield the scalpel of horror,
though furnished with tools for doing, marvellous
from ominous. Terror is only digestible to the eye
if beauty bears it. Look at the blind hole:
precise and loving gestures, without reflection,
before the mirror in which all operations
are emptied of meaning.

To have a garden is to let oneself be had by it,
and by its eternal movement of departure. Flowers, seeds, and
plants die forever or renew themselves. There is
pruning, and there are moments, in the sweet dusk of a
summer afternoon, to see it exceeding itself,
while the shadow of its fall announces itself
in the dense brightness of March, or in the
dreamless sleep of the subject when it dies, while
the species that contains it never ceases to forge itself.
The garden demands, of its gardener, that she watch it die.
It demands her hand to cut back and to reshape
the naked earth, turned over in the beds
beneath the frozen night. The garden kills
and asks to be killed, in order to be a garden. But to make
correct gestures in the wrong place
dissolves the equation, uncovers páramo.
Love reclaimed through difference, like
dark blue sky against sorrow. Royal
drop of the storm in whose embrace you reach
the farthest shore.  I wish you
were here, love, but you are—a gardener and not
a garden. You unearthed my heart from your bed.

He construido un jardín …

He construido un jardín como quien hace
los gestos correctos en el lugar errado.
Errado, no de error, sino de lugar otro,
como hablar con el reflejo del espejo y no
con quien se mira en él.
He construido un jardín para dialogar
allí, codo a codo en la belleza, con la siempre
muda pero activa muerte trabajando el corazón.
Deja el equipaje repetía, ahora que tu cuerpo
atisba las dos orillas, no hay nada, más
que los gestos precisos
dejarse ir para cuidarlo y
ser, el jardín.
Atesora lo que pierdes, decía, esta muerte
hablando en perfecto y distanciado castellano.
Lo que pierdes, mientras tienes, es la sola compañía
que te allega, a la orilla lejana de la muerte.

Ahora la lengua puede desatarse para hablar.
Ella que nunca pudo el escalpelo del horror
provista de herramientas para hacer, maravilloso
de ominoso. Sólo digerible al ojo el terror
si la belleza lo sostiene. Mira el agujero
ciego: los gestos precisos y amorosos sin reflejo
en el espejo frente al cual, la operatoria carece
de sentido.

Tener un jardín, es dejarse tener por él y su
eterno movimiento de partida. Flores, semillas y
plantas mueren para siempre o se renuevan. Hay
poda y hay momentos, en el ocaso dulce de una
tarde de verano, para verlo excediéndose de sí,
mientras la sombra de su caída anuncia
en el macizo fulgor de marzo, o en el dormir
sin sueño del sujeto cuando muere, mientras
la especie que lo contiene no cesa de forjarse.
El jardín exige, a su jardinera verlo morir.
Demanda su mano que recorte y modifique
la tierra desnuda, dada vuelta en los canteros
bajo la noche helada. El jardín mata
y pide ser muerto para ser jardín. Pero hacer
gestos correctos en el lugar errado,
disuelve la ecuación, descubre páramo.
Amor reclamado en diferencia como
cielo azul oscuro contra la pena. Gota
regia de la tormenta en cuyo abrazo llegas
a la orilla más lejana. I wish you
were here amor, pero sos, jardinera y no
jardín. Desenterraste mi corazón de tu cantero.

The machine is ready to start. The symbolic beasts grow resty, curveting where they stand at their places in the great blue circle of the year. The Showman’s voice rings out. “Montez, mesdames et messieurs, montez. You, sir, must bestride the Ram. You will take the Scorpion. Yours, madame, is the Goat. As for you there, blackguard boy, you must be content with the Fishes. I have allotted you the Virgin, mademoiselle.” . . . “Polisson!” “Pardon, pardon. Evidemment, c’est le Sagittaire qu’on demande. Ohé, les dards! The rest must take what comes. The Twins shall counterpoise one another in the Scales. So, so. Now away we go, away.”

Ha, what keen air. Wind of the upper spaces. Snuff it deep, drink in the intoxication of our speed. Hark how the music swells and rings. . . . sphery music, music of every vagabond planet, every rooted star; sound of winds and seas and all the simmering millions of life. Moving, singing . . . so with a roar and a rush round we go and round, for ever whirling on a ceaseless Bank Holiday of drunken life and speed.

But I happened to look inwards among the machinery of our roundabout, and there I saw a slobbering cretin grinding at a wheel and sweating as he ground, and grinding eternally. And when I perceived that he was the author of all our speed and that the music was of his making, that everything depended on his grinding wheel, I thought I would like to get off. But we were going too fast.