|Fotografía de Egor Shapovalov|
No sólo porque era una calurosa tarde de julio
FATHER’S OLD BLUE CARDIGAN
Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen chair
where I always sit, as it did
on the back of the kitchen chair where he always sat.
I put it on whenever I come in,
as he did, stamping
the snow from his boots.
I put it on and sit in the dark.
He would not have done this.
Coldness comes paring down from the moonbone in the sky.
His laws were a secret.
But I remember the moment at which I knew
he was going mad inside his laws.
He was standing at the turn of the driveway when I arrived
He had on the blue cardigan with the buttons done up all the way to the top.
Not only because it was a hot July afternoon
but he look on his face–
as a smalla child who has been dressed by some aunt early in the
morning for a long trip
on cold trains and windy platforms
will sit very straight at the edge of his seat
while the shadows like long fingers
over the haystacks that sweep past
keep shocking him
because he is riding backwards.
Una antología de la poesía estadounidense contemporánea,
textos introductorios de Harold Bloom
selección y traducción de Jeannette L. Clariond,
para leer MÁS