by Rafael Guillén

    Translated by Sandy McKinney

    I hardly remember your voice， but the pain of you

    floats in some remote current of my blood.

    I carry you in my depths， trapped in the sludge

    like one of those corpses¹ the sea refuses to give up.

    It was a spoiled remnant of the South. A beach

    without fishing boats， where the sun was for sale.

    A stretch of shore， now a jungle of lights and languages

    that grudgingly² offered， defeated， its obligation of sand.

    The night of that day punished us at its whim³.

    I held you so close I could barely see you.

    Autumn was brandishing⁴ guffaws⁵ and dancebands

    and the sea tore at the pleasure-boats in a frenzy⁶.

    Your hand balanced， with its steady heat，

    the wavering tepidness⁷ of alcohol. The gardens

    came at me from far away through your skirt.

    My high-tide mark rose to the level of your breasts.

    Carpets， like tentacles⁸， wriggling⁹ down to the strand¹⁰，

    attracted passers-by to the mouth of the clamor.

    With lights and curtains， above the tedium¹¹

    the bedrooms murmured in the grand hotels.

    There are dark moments when our ballast gives out

    from so much banging around. Moments， or centuries，

    when the flesh revels¹² in its nakedness and reels

    to its own destruction， sucking the life from itself.

    I groped around me， trying on your embrace，

    but love was not where your embrace was.

    I felt your hands stroking that physical ache

    but a great nothing went before your hands.

    I searched， down the length of your soulless surrender，

    for a calm bay where I could cast a net，

    yearning¹³ to hear a trace of the vendor's voice

    still wet with the glimmer¹⁴ of the flapping minnows.

    It was a spoiled remnant of the South. The aroma¹⁵

    of muscatel was tainted¹⁶ with whiskey breath.

    I carry that dead embrace inside me yet

    like a foreign object the flesh tries to reject.

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