WHAT IS THE LICENSE PLATE (REGISTRATION) OF YOUR DAD’S FIRST CAR?
In the end
when we changed seats
and he recovered the stick, the car
wouldn’t start; then it started
but the SPEEDS dropped
he argued with me
the whole trip
the only thing that survives
is this clarity
of Saturday
in the windshield
of a Chevrolet BEL AIR
wide as a movie screen
the light bending there and me with a gaze fixed
on the desert of FOURTH STREET
his friends asked us
why I didn’t know
how to drive at FOURTEEN
he replied
that I didn’t like it
the only space of intimacy
destined for the sons of fathers with cars
are the dark centimeters under the chassis
as a child I had to accompany him
to the garage, to see his legs
sticking out like
a springboard
I hated these wasted HOURS
I imagined kicking out the jack
to cut my father
in two
FIND ME
AN AXLE NUT
I never found it
HOLD
THIS
it fell out of my hand
I have always been someone who didn’t think twice
in the moment to use my feet
to hand him a hammer
in the end
we were passing the same RAG WITH GAS
that pulled out the corrosive oil; I think
what exasperated my father
was that I would ascribe
to each of the pieces of his world
another meaning
IN WHAT CITY OR TOWN DID YOUR MOTHER AND FATHER MEET?
my twenty-something father was a retired plainsman
who had already STARRED in a pair of accidents
his first wife had left him with a son
a palm tree had fallen on the tractor he was operating and
ACCORDING TO HIM he wore pieces of metal inside half his face
like some provincial version of Phantom of the Opera.
my mother, I guess, wanted to be free
of a family that imposed the expectation to be the best
to escape her sisters and little brother
to open the circles of tedium in a helpless town
that fulfilled all the qualities of suburbia
armed at the expense of a SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT
AFTERWARD, with the family, we often visited this village
we shouldn’t have been there so much
their offspring
IN WHAT CITY AND COUNTRY DO YOU WANT TO RETIRE?
in the expanse of the street I saw frogs
in the explosion of drops
of rain on the sidewalk
ephemeral frogs, translucent
in each starry drop
a whole empire
I asked my mother
DO YOU SEE THE FROGS?
my father brought his technique and I mine
to the late night round of PAPER ROCKETS
his seemed like prehistoric birds
mine signs of the future
the luminous trace of flight
of those renaissance papers
left a felled tree
born of my father and me
WHAT WAS THE NAME OF YOUR ELEMENTARY/PRIMARY SCHOOL?
at ten sharp, the mothers
perched like devoted doves
at the chainlink fence
they passed over to us a tote
with bread and butter
and a plastic bottle of lemonade
WE PIONEERS pressed against the wire
on tiptoe to grab the snack
once they switched our places
they announced it that same morning
nine year old Yaima rebelled
THE MOTHERS ARE GOING TO BE THERE
WITHERING
and it caused a little revolution among the troops
***
The originals are below:
WHAT IS THE LICENSE PLATE (REGISTRATION) OF YOUR DAD’S FIRST CAR?
al final
cuando cambiamos asientos y
él recuperó el timón, el carro
no arrancaba; luego arrancó
pero no caían las VELOCIDADES
fue peleando conmigo
todo el viaje de vuelta
lo único práctico que sobrevive
es esa claridad
de sábado
en el parabrisas
del chevrolet BEL AIR
ancho como pantalla de cine
la luz quebrándose allí y yo con la mirada fija
en el desierto del CAMINO CUATRO
sus amigos nos preguntaban
por qué yo no
sabía manejar a los CATORCE AÑOS
él respondía que a mí no me gustaba
el único espacio de intimidad
destinado a los hijos de padres con carro
son los centímetros oscuros bajo el chasis
de niño debía acompañarlo
en el garaje, veía sus piernas
saliendo por fuera como una
tabla de clavados
odiaba esas HORAS desperdiciadas
dibujaba estrategias que me harían patear el gato y
cortar a mi padre
en dos
BÚSCAME
UNA TUERCA
jamás la encontraba
SUJÉTAME
ESTO
se me caía de la mano
siempre he sido quien no lo piensa dos veces
a la hora de servirse de un pie
para alcanzar un martillo
al final
nos pasábamos el mismo TRAPO CON GASOLINA
que arracaba la grasa cáusticamente
creo
que lo que exasperaba a mi padre
era que yo asignara
a cada una de las piezas de su mundo
otro significado
IN WHAT CITY OR TOWN DID YOUR MOTHER AND FATHER MEET?
mi padre era un llanero jubilado de veinte años
que ya había PROTAGONIZADO un par de accidentes
su primera mujer lo había dejado con un hijo
le había caído una palma encima del tractor que manejaba y
SEGÚN ÉL llevaba media cara con trozos de metal por
dentro
en versión provinciana del fantasma de la ópera
mi madre, supongo, quería emanciparse
de una familia que le imponía la corrección de ser la mayor
escapar de sus hermanas y su hermano pequeño
abrir los círculos de tedio de un pueblo desamparado
que cumplía con todas las cualidades de suburbio
armado a expensas de un EXPERIMENTO CIENTÍFICO
DESPUÉS, con la familia, visitábamos mucho ese pueblo
no debimos mostrarnos tanto por allí
sus hijos
IN WHAT CITY AND COUNTRY DO YOU WANT TO RETIRE?
en lo ancho de la calle veía ranas
en la explosión de las gotas
de lluvia sobre la acera
ranas efímeras, traslúcidas
en cada gota estrellada
todo un imperio
le pregunté a mi madre
¿VES LAS RANAS?
mi padre traía su técnica y yo la mía
a la ronda nocturna de COHETES DE PAPEL
los suyos parecían aves prehistóricas
los míos insignias del futuro
la traza luminosa del vuelo
de aquellos papeles renacentistas
iba dejando un árbol derribado
que nacía de mi padre y de mí
WHAT WAS THE NAME OF YOUR ELEMENTARY / PRIMARY SCHOOL?
a las diez en punto, las madres
se posaban como palomas devotas
en la CUADRÍCULA del cercado
nos alcanzaban por encima una bolsita de tela
con un pan con mantequilla y
un pomo plástico de limonada
los PIONEROS incrustados contra el alambre
levantándose en puntillas para llegar a la merienda
una vez nos cambiaron de área
lo anunciaron esa misma mañana
con nueve años yaíma se reveló
LAS MADRES VAN A ESTAR AHÍ
AÑEJÁNDOSE
y causó una pequeña revolución entre las tropas
***
Translator’s Bio:
Author of poetry collections “The Uncorrected Eye” and “How to Paint a Dead Man,” Harry Bauld was included by Matthew Dickman in Best New Poets 2012 (UVa Press). His poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the U.S. and U.K. and won the New Millenium Writings award and the Milton Kessler Poetry Prize from Harpur Palate.
Photo by Dan Cristian Pădureț on Unsplash
