^{translated from the Spanish by Ana Portnoy Brimmer}

Silence is impossible in this century.
Everything howls. It has no way to flourish.
The wild animal of ourselves, this learned condition
growls relentlessly.
 
Might we then remove ourselves from the bustle.
Build a nest atop some lull
or find shelter that’ll hold
our anxious knowing, that we die
 
awfully small
awfully momentous
among endless noise.
 

Ruido

Es imposible el silencio en este siglo.
No tiene cómo darse. Es que tanto ruge.
Imparable ronronea la bestia que somos
la que hemos aprendido.
 
Será posible entonces ausentarse del bullicio.
Hacer nido en la pausa
o encontrar resguardo que acurruque
la ansiedad de sabernos morir
 
tan pequeños
tan importantes
entre tanto ruido.

I thought it was the neighbor’s cat back
to clean the clock of the fledgling robins low
in their nest stuck in the dense hedge by the house
but what came was much stranger, a liquidity
moving all muscle and bristle. A groundhog
slippery and waddle thieving my tomatoes still
green in the morning’s shade. I watched her
munch and stand on her haunches taking such
pleasure in the watery bites. Why am I not allowed
delight? A stranger writes to request my thoughts
on suffering. Barbed wire pulled out of the mouth,
as if demanding that I kneel to the trap of coiled
spikes used in warfare and fencing. Instead,
I watch the groundhog closer and a sound escapes
me, a small spasm of joy I did not imagine
when I woke. She is a funny creature and earnest,
and she is doing what she can to survive.

Let me begin again as a quiet thought
in the shape of a shell slowly examined
by a brown child on a beach at dawn
straining to see their future. Let me begin
this time knowing the drumming in my dreams
is me inheriting the earth, is morning
lighting up the rivers. Let me burn
my vanities: old music in the pines, sifters
of scotch, a day moon like a signature
of night. This time, let me circle
the island of my fears only once then
live like a raging waterfall and grow
a magnificent mustache. Let me not ever be
the birdcage or the serrated blade or
the empty season. Dear Glacier, Dear Sea
of Stars, Dear Leopards disintegrating
at the outer limits of our greed; soon we will
encounter you only in motivational tweets.
Reader, I should have married you sooner.
This time, let me not sleep like the prophet who
believes he’s seen infinity. Let me run
at break-neck speeds toward sceneries
of doubt. I have no more dress rehearsals
to attend. Look closer: I am licking my lips.