Translated from Spanish by Robin Myers
XVIII (Dubia et spuria)
Fr. 54
Many years later, as he faced
the firing squad, he was to remember that distant
afternoon when his father, foaming at
the mouth, came to blows with a man in the village
bar, hauled him out to the street, and beat him to a pulp.
The little reddened teeth
gleamed on the ground, scattering like startled ants.
• •
Fr. A 3
Every night, Persephone buys a ticket
at the Franklin Avenue / Botanic Garden Station and
spends hours riding the subway. One of her eyes
can only see what has already been; the other betrays her
by making her see what can never be. She hasn’t yet determined
if it’s the left or the right. She rides in hope
that some stranger will approach and offer her a pomegranate.
• •
Fr. D 7
One day, the occupying forces disappeared.
No planes or helicopters passed overhead; there was no noise
of trucks departing. The camp was left
intact: arms, ammunition, vehicles, uniforms,
provisions, all cached away with something
like modesty. Months later, we discovered that
they’d found a way to fulfill their mission:
under the fields and haciendas, feeding the
earth, the trees, the grass, those soldiers
rotted rabidly. It was too late.
• •
Fr. 27
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad,
he was to remember that distant afternoon when his father
took him to the brothel. The girls waved from a distance.
Two were still marked with the bruises he had
left them. There was no ice in the village to reduce the swelling.
He, still a child, let himself be led, but he couldn’t have sex with
any of them. Desire was a scratch that festered on his skin, that filled
his throat with an unfamiliar liquid. He was mute,
paralyzed. Mockery and ridicule awaited him at home.
• •
Fr. E 9
. . . unburied, subjected to the buzzards’ lust.
• •
Fr. C 31
Everyone cheered when the king’s head
tumbled across the floor, detached from his body by
the tidy passion of the guillotine. After a couple weeks
had passed, however, a rumor began to spread: the king had
another head hidden away somewhere. Some
said it was in the palace; others conjectured
that it must be concealed among the talking relics
at the cathedral. But one thing was for sure: wherever it was,
everyone insisted, the king still reigned.
• •
Fr. A 14
Charon sits on this side of the river
and smokes. The dead throng
around him—standing up, because they’ve forgotten
how to sit. The boatman refuses
to take them. He won’t accept bottle
caps or empty beer cans
for his services.
• •
Fr. 32
Many years later, as he
faced the firing squad, he was to
remember that distant afternoon when
his father took him to hunt deer for
the first time. He was a good shot despite his
maimed left hand—people say
he was born with six fingers, but one
fine day he grabbed a knife and severed
the extra digit. He taught his son how
to flay, how to remove the
guts and store the blood. He kept
the deer’s eyes for himself. No way
of knowing what he’d do with them.
• •
Fr. A 33
The night the president died, not
a single person noticed. The palace’s other
inhabitants were drinking, watching porn, or simply
asleep. It wasn’t until the next day that they found
his body, already distended, like a sponge
that would have stored whatever was left of
the night inside him. After the obligatory shouts
and weeping, the appropriate
prayers, they closed his eyes. Which instantly
snapped open. His companions
and kin didn’t flinch: they shut his eyelids
again. And an instant later they
were open once more. And so they spent the first
half of the day waging this unequal battle with
the hallowed lids. They called for ministers, aides,
representatives from the chamber of entrepreneurs, even
the senior military officers—no one knew what to do.
They couldn’t bury him that way. Finally,
the vice president had an idea: he suggested they replace
his eyes and lids with false ones. And so they did.
• •
Fr. 15
Many years later, as
he faced the firing squad, he
was to remember that distant
afternoon when his father
showed him the novel he’d
been writing for years,
a book to preserve
the sum of what he’d forgotten.
• •
Fr. C 5
To live life so that it’s left
intact when we leave it,
so that someone else can pick it up
off the ground, stretch it out, dust it off, wear
it loose. To drink our water, yawn
away our boredom, laugh at our second-
hand ironies. As far as life is concerned, continuity
and plagiarism are one and the same.
• •
Fr. E 2
. . . of all crafts learned,
just . . . nakedness.
*
Fr. 11
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, he was
to remember that distant afternoon when his father lay dense
and swollen on his deathbed. He retained water as he did
everything else, with the same rage; he didn’t want a single drop
left over in this world. Delirious, he was convinced that thirst
would demolish all the houses in the village within days, drive the horses
mad, devour the cows from inside. There was no one to take care
of him; no one could stand him. He’d been kicked out by the mayor,
and his other children had fled to the capital. That night, once
they’d moved his body, they found two bags under the bed, like garbage
bags, full of chicken bones, faded photographs,
bullets, and a bottle of rotgut, unopened.
XIX (Natural History of Debris: Kidneys)
Patient Name: Adalber Salas Hernández
ID Number: 12 345 678
Age: 21
Weight: 63.5 kg
Height: 173 cm
Referred by Dr. Ingrid Cavalieri
The patient reports severe lumbar pain on the right side, radiating to the epigastrium, thorax, and back (shoulder), over the past 15 days, intensifying with deep inhalation. He came to the emergency room and was found to have ESR of 52 mm, 2+ protein in urine, urinary casts (0-4 per field), and negative urine cultures, with proteinuria at 2.93 g/24 h. Several days later, he presented an induration with limited function in the dorsal vein of the right elbow, with mild edema without erythema.
[Needles demarcating the space between the
ribs, the opaque expanse of this region
where there are no houses, where cattle don’t
graze, where no tree stretches into the cold of its
branches. Needles working the ribs
as if engraving them, their curve
embracing the lungs’ rich silt.]
Medical history:
Childhood asthma.
No known drug allergies.
Extraction of three wisdom teeth on May 21, 2009. Took ibuprofen every 12 hours, diclofenac every 6 hours, and clindamycin every 10 hours.
Resection of the nasal conchae and correction of deviated septum.
Intense febrile episode in November.
Vaccinated against hepatitis.
[Moss growing on the fleshy walls,
in the tunnels, biting at the scaffolding
of the breath. Algae in
the pleura’s light pool, climbing
tenaciously. A cough
like a hungry dog, barking,
snapping at the bronchi.]
Family medical history:
Father: Living, age 55, labyrinthitis.
Mother: Living, age 51, dyslipidemia, osteoporosis.
Siblings: 1S APS.
Family history of diabetes.
HPB: Prior tobacco smoking, denies current consumption, three cups of coffee daily, alcoholic beverages every three days approx. Medications: marijuana, hashish.
Rest of physical exam presents no variations.
[Organ artifacts eaten away with use,
whittled with wear, suspended.
Among them, the tautological
language of the blood, veins
tensed to measure distances
we don’t suspect.
A layer of plaster forms
over them, bit by bit.
Organs that hang from their minimal
insomnia, that don’t sleep or permit sleep.]
Diagnosis:
Nephrotic syndrome.
Membranous glomerulonephritis (stage I-II).
The possibility of secondary membranous glomerulonephritis must be ruled out. The patient will be referred for upper and lower GI endoscopy. He will also be referred for a percutaneous renal biopsy.
[Organs like fish that swim
in blind water. Creatures without
witnesses, living far from the
rabid empire of the gaze.
They fear discovering the coast of this
subterranean sea, its naked
and dazzled shore, zenithal knife.
Beyond the skin, the light:
the most finished form of fear.]
Treatment:
Losartan potassium: 50 mg daily.
Omega-3: two capsules daily.
Prednisone: 30 mg at 8 a.m. and 30 mg at 4 p.m.
Mycophenolate Mofetil: 1 gr every 12 hours.
Warfarin: 5 mg daily.
Omeprazole: 40 mg daily.
The treatment will be adjusted according to the results of monthly checkups.
[The body’s coral silence.]
XXIII (Natural History of Debris: Lazarus)
First came the breath falling furious
across the waters. A few words half-
heard, raucous stones hurled
against the pane of sleep. He’s always struggled
to get up in the morning. Defying all of death’s codes,
unfamiliar hands take Lazarus by the shoulders and
drag him into the midday, abrupt as a
cliff; pry open his mouth; and force bitter
breath into it, thump his chest
until his heart revs up again, until the body’s
gutters fill once more with the forgetful,
bloody torrent, motor oil, diesel
fuel. He stumbles his way out of the sepulcher, blinded
by the glare; he’s lost his shroud, and
the witnesses to the miracle can see his flesh
darkened by putrefaction, striped with worms,
the map of another world. The stench is overpowering.
All cover their noses; some vomit. Lazarus
blinks in the stubborn radiance, his dry
gaze burns, he can’t focus it. No one understands
why he’s been brought back to the world, but
the newspapers are thrilled. Plans
are made for a documentary and a reality
show (Lazarus and six young people in a house,
learning to surf or cooking in front of an audience).
His photo is all over Twitter, #loosehimandlethimgo.
Astrologists squabble over the birth
chart of someone twice born.
He keeps blinking. He gestures, stammers, drops
his syllables, clumsy toys. Groans, grunts. How
to fire up the voice’s soft machine again.
The witnesses soon disperse. Lazarus is
left alone, still at a loss for how to clothe his naked body,
starting to understand that god is a blind muscle.
Finally, he takes a sidelong glance and walks away and that’s the end of it.
XXIV
Gummy, semitransparent gloves, bladeless
scalpel, face mask, oversized white
robe. I’m fifteen years old and in the lab,
in biology class, surrounded by tiny animals in
jars of formaldehyde, plastic anatomical
models and precision instruments that no one
has ever used. Every week, a hanging skeleton
observes us from its corner as we struggle
to understand the graceless, viscous secret that living
bodies keep. Today I had to bring in a cow’s
heart. I hauled its blackened, greasy weight around all
morning long, packed in a cooler so it wouldn’t
rot. I’ve lugged it patiently. Now
it’s on the counter, laid out on the dissection
table. It doesn’t tremble when I open it,
cutting through the fatty tissue as best I can,
enduring the murky funk that clings to my throat.
Elastic fibers, membranes, atria, ventricles,
all resisting my touch, places where a rough
flower grew, a cold and anxious ground that’s no
one’s motherland. This is where the blood ran, conveying
its belongings, its concrete contraband, through
the pulmonary valve, and then the aortic,
which would strain with a thick groan as it went.
An enormous instrument, atrocious, flesh
and tense fat clenched with rage, fold
upon fold, just like mine, hidden in
the chest’s amniotic darkness, among the springs,
cogs, and tattered cables of the thoracic cage,
far from the bitter border of all things, pulsing
like a galaxy sunk into the distance,
whose light erodes and ages
before it ever reaches us. The device’s only virtue
was its blindness; here, in the purgatory of the
table, between the body uprooted
and the mute paradise of halogen bulbs,
it’s exposed, diminished, bringing to our sight
the passageways traveled by the inarticulate
voice that once nursed us all,
the same that fed us the hoarse
mud of life. Now, it’s quiet, stilled of rhetoric,
mere scaffolding, a crossing point. It learned that distance
is measured not in meters but in vanishings. That I
is not an other; that I is no one, a chain of piled-up
throbs, noise, rust, prosody unpossessed by anyone.
