Pred vrati, katerih palice so v vetru brnele
kot sove, ki ukajo druga drugi preko temnega polja, Isabel,
je bilo ognjišče sajasto-mehkega & snežno-belega pepela.
Bilo je globlje, kot se ti zdi, po letih kresov
in mrakov, ko so očarljiva krila papirja zažarela v prasketu
isker & izpuhtela v temo kot male zvezde.
Onstran pojočih vrat je ležalo temno polje, ki se je hranilo
s telesi jagenjčkov & bruhalo poškrobljene pahljače
golobjih kril: tam je pognala rdeča trava.
Z lopato sem izkopal jamo & zajemal zvrhana vedra,
da bi nahranil očetov vrt, ki je spuščal srebrne
grižljaje pepela & zavozlana krompirjeva stebla.
Ves ta čas so vrata razglašeno brnela v vetru:
razglašeno, toda z razponom: visoko & nizko, dolgo & kratko,
nepovezano, neokusno, butasto življenje, ki hoče v pesem.
Udaril sem tako brezbrižno, Isabel – vroče, z eno roko, jezno
& treščil skalo, obešeno v zemlji, kot naj bi zavest, tako se
govori, živela v jazu ali kot naj bi bil jaz obešen v telesu.
Visoko, nizko, dolgo, kratko: moje roke so otrpnile, zbegan ptič
je švignil iz moje lobanje, skala, grbasta, odporna na udarec.
Sijajno zvenenje v bilki se je pritrdilo na tisto os.
Prevod: Ana Pepelnik
In front of the gate whose tubes hummed in the wind
like owls hooing each other across a dark field, Isabel,
was the firepit’s tract of soot-soft & snow-white ashes.
It went deeper than you knew, after years of bonfires,
dusks when sightly wings of paper flared in a woosh
of sparks & ghosted into darkness like minor stars.
Beyond the singing gate lay the dark field which ate
the bodies of lambs & threw up the bleached fans
of pigeon wings: the grass grew red in those places.
I dug the pit with a shovel & scooped bucketloads
to feed my father’s garden which drew down silver
mouthfuls of ash & the tangled brown potato haulms.
All the while the gate hummed tunelessly in the wind:
Tunelessly, but with range: high & low, long & short,
disconnected, artless, dumb life struggling into song.
I struck so reckless, Isabel – hot, one-handed, peeved,
& clanged a rock that hung in earth as consciousness is
said to inhere in the self, or the self to hang in the body.
High, low, long, short: my arms went dead, a dazed bird
burst from my skull, the rock, humped, deaf to the blow.
A brilliant ringing in the blade secured itself to that axis.