Embraceable

By JUAN CARLOS MARSET 

Translated by ILAN STAVANS 

 

Abrazable

A Piedad Bonnett

Irremplazable tú,

voz tú vacía

de mi vacío en ti

inconsolable.

Mi tú irremediable

tu mí espejo

de tu reflejo

en mí. Nada clavada

en tu silencio,

callada voz del sueño

desalmada

entre mi cuerpo

y el tuyo deshaciendo

este recuerdo

 

de mi abrazable tú,

voz tú que alientas

al ahuyentar el ángel

que nos dimos

cuando dijimos

lo que puede que nunca

nos haya sucedido.

 

Embraceable

To Piedad Bonnett

Irreplaceable you,

voice, your empty

of my inconsolable

emptiness in you.

My irremediable you,

you, my mirror

of your reflection

 

in me. Unforced

into your silence,

silent voice of heartless

dream

between my body

and yours, undoing

this memory

 

of my embraceable you,

you, voice that strengthens

while banishing the angel

we gave ourselves

when we said

what might never have

happened to us.

 

[Purchase Issue 13 here]

Juan Carlos Marset was born in Albacete, Spain, in 1963. He is editor-in-chief of the magazine Sibila, professor of aesthetics and theory of the arts at Universidad de Sevilla, and author of Puer profeta, Leyenda napolitana, Laberinto, and Días que serán, where “Abrazable/Embraceable” is included.

 

Ilan Stavans is publisher of Restless Books, Lewis-Sebring Professor in Latin American and Latino Culture at Amherst College, and author of On Borrowed Words, Dictionary Days, and Quixote. His latest books are I Love My Selfie (with ADÁL), Pablo Neruda: All the Odes, and a Spanglish translation of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince.

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We love any excuse to hear from our contributors! This month, our Issue 13 authors and poets tap into their literary communities as they recommend works by colleagues, friends, and Pulitzer Prize winners. United in their affection, the authors are nonetheless divided by their selections, as their choices shed light upon nowhereness, colonization, and Florida oranges.

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Once in a car, a good boy / shook me hard. If you like it / that way in bed, then why are you… / the tiny bruises on my arms / where his prints pressed into my pink/ sleeves rose to the surface like rattles. / Like requests. They thrived there / for a week until they settled /