trying to name what doesn't change::tratando de nombrar lo que no cambia
Trying to Name What Doesn’t Change
Roselva says the only thing that doesn’t change
is train tracks. She’s sure of it.
The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery
by the side, but not the tracks.
I’ve watched one for three years, she says,
and it doesn’t curve, doesn’t break, doesn’t grow.
Peter isn’t sure. He saw an abandoned track
near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train
is a changed track. The metal wasn’t shiny anymore.
The wood was split and some of the ties were gone.
Every Tuesday on Morales Street
butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens.
The widow in the tilted house
spices her soup with cinnamon.
Ask her what doesn’t change.
Stars explode.
The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals.
The cat who knew me is buried under the bush.
The train whistle still wails its ancient sound
but when it goes away, shrinking back
from the walls of the brain,
it takes something different with it every time.
Roselva says the only thing that doesn’t change
is train tracks. She’s sure of it.
The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery
by the side, but not the tracks.
I’ve watched one for three years, she says,
and it doesn’t curve, doesn’t break, doesn’t grow.
Peter isn’t sure. He saw an abandoned track
near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train
is a changed track. The metal wasn’t shiny anymore.
The wood was split and some of the ties were gone.
Every Tuesday on Morales Street
butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens.
The widow in the tilted house
spices her soup with cinnamon.
Ask her what doesn’t change.
Stars explode.
The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals.
The cat who knew me is buried under the bush.
The train whistle still wails its ancient sound
but when it goes away, shrinking back
from the walls of the brain,
it takes something different with it every time.
Words Under the Words: Selected Poems
Far Corner Books, Portland, Oregon, USA (1995)
Tratando de nombrar lo que no cambia
Roselva dice que lo único que no cambia
son las vías de tren. Ella está segura de eso.
El tren cambia, o las malezas que crecen como arañas
a los lados, pero no las vías.
He mirado unas durante tres años, dice,
y no se curva, no se rompe, no crece.
Peter no está seguro. Él vio unas vías abandonadas
cerca de Sabinas, México, y dice una vía sin un tren
es una vía modificada El metal ya no brillaba.
La madera estaba partida y faltaban algunas ataduras.
Todos los martes en la calle Morales
los carniceros le parten el cuello a cien gallinas.
La viuda en la casa inclinada
condimenta su sopa con canela.
Pregúntale qué es lo que no cambia.
Las estrellas explotan.
La rosa se enrosca como si hubiera fuego en los pétalos.
El gato que me conocía está enterrado bajo el arbusto.
El silbido del tren todavía llora su antiguo sonido
pero cuando desaparece, retrocede
desde las paredes del cerebro,
se lleva algo diferente cada vez.
Words Under the Words: Selected Poems
Far Corner Books, Portland, Oregon, USA (1995)
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