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Authors: Kristin Naca
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pitch of purple stars.
Mouthfuls of lavender at the height of August.
Her lips, red gathering in the creases when she puckers.
Endings that are dirty tricks and also feathers.
Red water out the pipes, teeming from the rusty gutters.
The curtain flicker in the leafy, August breeze.
The ghostly cu-cu echoing through the purple night, under stars.
TODAVÍA NO
Los pedazos de la lengua quedan tan gordos y abultados como flores.
Dime, árbol. Son los que están allá solamente ramas desnudas y alguna corteza.
Todavía no, no hay palabras para hacer capas de piel sobre la primavera.
El color verde se difumina sin leaves.
El único pájaro que aterriza allí es el halcón.
En el espejo, el reflejo de su pelo es castañas labradas.
Las venas de la cala están labradas con paredes. No, piedras. No, pérdidas.
Mientras tanto, tus manos están hechas de nudillos y hechas de piel.
En la ventana, el cristal se superpone al árbol desnudo afuera.
Sin fingernails, solamente clavos. Los dedos-garras. Los dedos-lanzas, dice ella.
La ropa en la cama está limpia y suelta.
La mujer en la cama espera no morir mientras duerme… despierta…despierta.
El halcón la aguada en el árbol desnudo, más allá de la ventana, más allá de los muros.
La canción del pájaro superpone a la noche despejada, la deja despierta.
Todavía no, todas las canciones que canta, le da de comer al halcón.
Todas las noches que espera ella, le da de comer a la muerte.
NOT YET
The nubs of the tongue sit fat and bulky as flowers.
Say, tree . What’s there but bare branches and some bark.
No words for putting layers of skin on spring yet.
Green glows loose without its leaves.
The only bird that lands there is the falcon.
In the mirror, the reflection of her hair is carved chestnuts.
The veins of the creek encrusted with walls. No, stones. No, losing.
Meanwhile your hands are made of knuckles and made of skin.
In the window, glass overlaps the naked tree outside.
No fingernails, just the nails. Finger-claws. Finger-swords, she says.
The laundry on the bed is clean and limp.
The woman in her bed hopes she doesn’t die in her sleep… wake up…wake up.
The falcon waits for her in the naked tree, beyond the window, beyond the walls.
The small bird’s song overlaps the clear night, keeps her from her sleep.
Still, every song he sings, he’s food for the falcon.
Every night she waits, she’s food for death.
“GAVILÁN O PALOMA”
— Mexico City
Once a bird pecked her lover’s hand
with such sincerity that she lost
hold of the seeds she secretly tossed,
to keep all the birds at her command.
No dejabas de mirar, you sang me,
last night, estabas sola completamente
bella y sensual, and the notes stirred
loose feather dust from your chest.
you didn’t stop staring
you alone were completely
beautiful and sensual
When you exhaled, your silhouette
dissolved, reddening the D. F. dusk.
Vibrato frayed your veil: how you fled
one city, but betrayal beckoned you;
confess, how lovers nest in branches
of your collarbones while you sleep.
Entre tus brazos caí …consumed
by your song’s, lonesome downbeat.
How I fell into your arms
Paloma,
I know some days begin with birds.
Nights we suffer from too few songs.
How the chorus of a woman’s lips delays
Sorrows that each heartbeat prolongs.
Amiga,
Tell me how you’re leaning, before
sunlight bathes the city in pink spells.
Will your voice deliver me morning?
Or, will the caroling street-vendors bells?
USES FOR SPANISH IN PITTSBURGH
What use is there for describing
Bloomfield’s hard-sloping rooftops this way?
Or that the church steeples beam upward, inexpertly
toward God. What difference does it make
to say, the chimney pipes peel their red skins,
or las pieles rojas, exposing tough steel underneath.
What good, then, for Spanish,
its parity of consonants and vowels—
vowels like a window to the throat,
breath chiming through the vocal chords.
And
Mouthfuls of lavender at the height of August.
Her lips, red gathering in the creases when she puckers.
Endings that are dirty tricks and also feathers.
Red water out the pipes, teeming from the rusty gutters.
The curtain flicker in the leafy, August breeze.
The ghostly cu-cu echoing through the purple night, under stars.
TODAVÍA NO
Los pedazos de la lengua quedan tan gordos y abultados como flores.
Dime, árbol. Son los que están allá solamente ramas desnudas y alguna corteza.
Todavía no, no hay palabras para hacer capas de piel sobre la primavera.
El color verde se difumina sin leaves.
El único pájaro que aterriza allí es el halcón.
En el espejo, el reflejo de su pelo es castañas labradas.
Las venas de la cala están labradas con paredes. No, piedras. No, pérdidas.
Mientras tanto, tus manos están hechas de nudillos y hechas de piel.
En la ventana, el cristal se superpone al árbol desnudo afuera.
Sin fingernails, solamente clavos. Los dedos-garras. Los dedos-lanzas, dice ella.
La ropa en la cama está limpia y suelta.
La mujer en la cama espera no morir mientras duerme… despierta…despierta.
El halcón la aguada en el árbol desnudo, más allá de la ventana, más allá de los muros.
La canción del pájaro superpone a la noche despejada, la deja despierta.
Todavía no, todas las canciones que canta, le da de comer al halcón.
Todas las noches que espera ella, le da de comer a la muerte.
NOT YET
The nubs of the tongue sit fat and bulky as flowers.
Say, tree . What’s there but bare branches and some bark.
No words for putting layers of skin on spring yet.
Green glows loose without its leaves.
The only bird that lands there is the falcon.
In the mirror, the reflection of her hair is carved chestnuts.
The veins of the creek encrusted with walls. No, stones. No, losing.
Meanwhile your hands are made of knuckles and made of skin.
In the window, glass overlaps the naked tree outside.
No fingernails, just the nails. Finger-claws. Finger-swords, she says.
The laundry on the bed is clean and limp.
The woman in her bed hopes she doesn’t die in her sleep… wake up…wake up.
The falcon waits for her in the naked tree, beyond the window, beyond the walls.
The small bird’s song overlaps the clear night, keeps her from her sleep.
Still, every song he sings, he’s food for the falcon.
Every night she waits, she’s food for death.
“GAVILÁN O PALOMA”
— Mexico City
Once a bird pecked her lover’s hand
with such sincerity that she lost
hold of the seeds she secretly tossed,
to keep all the birds at her command.
No dejabas de mirar, you sang me,
last night, estabas sola completamente
bella y sensual, and the notes stirred
loose feather dust from your chest.
you didn’t stop staring
you alone were completely
beautiful and sensual
When you exhaled, your silhouette
dissolved, reddening the D. F. dusk.
Vibrato frayed your veil: how you fled
one city, but betrayal beckoned you;
confess, how lovers nest in branches
of your collarbones while you sleep.
Entre tus brazos caí …consumed
by your song’s, lonesome downbeat.
How I fell into your arms
Paloma,
I know some days begin with birds.
Nights we suffer from too few songs.
How the chorus of a woman’s lips delays
Sorrows that each heartbeat prolongs.
Amiga,
Tell me how you’re leaning, before
sunlight bathes the city in pink spells.
Will your voice deliver me morning?
Or, will the caroling street-vendors bells?
USES FOR SPANISH IN PITTSBURGH
What use is there for describing
Bloomfield’s hard-sloping rooftops this way?
Or that the church steeples beam upward, inexpertly
toward God. What difference does it make
to say, the chimney pipes peel their red skins,
or las pieles rojas, exposing tough steel underneath.
What good, then, for Spanish,
its parity of consonants and vowels—
vowels like a window to the throat,
breath chiming through the vocal chords.
And
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