“Everyone needs one untranslatable song.”
—Juarroz
On hearing the striped contralto of guinea fowl,
its mock opera quivers the parsley atop its head—
The song makes its imprint
in the air, making itself felt,
a felt world. Here, there,
the stunned silence
of knowing I will not remember
what I heard;
futures
that will never happen,
a fluidity we cannot achieve
except as a child
creating possibility.
This is the untranslatable song
hidden in the earth.
From My Father and Miro by Claudia Reder. Copyright © 2001 by Claudia Reder. Published by permission of Bright Hill Press. All rights reserved.