"Cantino."
Go ahead.
Intentaré el español de "Cantino."
OK.
Te escribo sobre esta mesa de mares un párafo entre las
tablas de arena, un peregrinaje de
ojos del abismo hacia la voz acá afuera.
Cuando alguien grita, las ramas se mojan de
labios gris y velos.
Las palabras abandonan las vigas de hombros y
vientres como gaviotas con susto,
vientres de trueno preso.
La sal esclava.
Es viernes, Quentino, tus 18 años en la celda palpitan como
puños ninos.
Aquí también hay una tuberculosis de hierro,
la risa de la arena, puñales que nacen de los pezones de los
administradores, las secretarias desnudas en una
taquigrafía de eslabones.
Es viernes cuando los viejos se mecen en sillones oscuros.
Y de vez en cuando miran sus manos que tiemblan.
Las quijadas del pasto gruñen.
Y luego se acuerdan de tus cejas y tus puños
guitarras que tocaban sol y luna cuando nosotros
solos pedíamos tierra.
Estamos en Junio, un rumbo, un rumbo, entre primero y el 30.
Quentino, un pétalo infinito entre 2 candados imaginarios.
Quentino y la bandera de Yodo en la recámara de
militares y perfume en tus manos y la armazón de un M16 entre la
frente de Somoza.
Explotaron a la calle 45 años de humo y sangre.
¿Y qué es lo que cambia?
Quentino, ayer murió tu padre debajo del incierto
maquillaje de hospitales.
Hoy camino las calles.
Busco los ojos y los busco.
Cuando hay más luz, los busco.
Pero la gente te acostumbra a las rejas eternas
entre los ojos y verano.
This was a time when my cousin was in prison.
He had a hard time.
And one of our mother's name is Quintana.
And sometimes it's called--
people would call, let's say, Quentino.
So I was thinking about my cousin.
And these were the late '70s and very early '80s
when we had all those Central America issues, intervention
in central America.
Remember those days?
It was a heavy, hot scene.
So it all kind of came together here in its own way.
Quentino, I write you on this table
of oceans, a paragraph between sand planks,
of pilgrimage of eyes, from abyss to voice here outside.
When someone screams, the branches
become wet with veils and gray lips.
Words abandoned the shoulders, rafters, and bellies
like frightened seagulls, bellies of imprisoned thunder,
captive salt.
It is Friday.
Quentino, your 18 years in a jail cell throb like baby fists
here to--
there is an iron tuberculosis, the spider's laughter,
daggers that surge from administrator's nipples,
secretaries naked and chained lick stenography.
It is Friday when the old folks walk in their dark chairs.
And then they remember your eyebrows
and your guitar fists that played sun and moon when all we
wanted was earth.
It is June en route from the first to the 30th.
Quentino, infinite pedal between two imaginary padlocks,
Quentino.
And what about the iodine flags and the military barracks
and perfume in your hands and the shell of an M16
between Somoza's brow?
In the street they exploded, 45 years of smoke and blood.
And then what changes?
Quentino, yesterday your father died beneath a deceptive makeup
of hospitals.
Today I walk the streets searching for eyes.
And I search for them.
When there is more light, I search.
But people are accustomed to the eternal bars between their eyes
and summer.
Yeah.
[APPLAUSE]
That's around 1981, that poem.