translated from the Spanish by Edith Adams

It’s hard to say:
is this a tapir
or
is this fear

I can’t decide
if the image existed
in this universe 
of things

Because
tapir and fear
lay outstretched
in repose
to the eclipse prior
to their words

Just as I was also myself
before the creation of this poem

We carry traces of blood stamped
upon gold and brown skin

—that is our language—

A frenzy of vultures wait till we fall 

I look toward the hills:
black clouds and plantations

We don’t have a marching band
but once it rained fish
I ask myself what would’ve happened
if they
had never
arrived

Which
word
to name

Which
land
to maim

I don’t know if we are 
catastrophe
or the dream of the absent
bird

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