LXI
(For Spanish translation click here)

I get down from the horse tonight,

at the door of the house, where

at cockcrow took my leave.

It’s locked and nobody answers.

Stone bench on which mother gave birth to

my older brother, so that he might saddle up

loins I had ridden bareback through village

roads and past garden walls, a child of the village;

the bench on which I left behind me the sun

light of my painful childhood . . . And what of

this pain that frames the entrance?

A god in alien peace,

sneezing, like calling also, the brute,

sniff, striking the pavement. And then, hesitate

it neighs,

twitching its alert ears.

Father must be awake praying, and perhaps

with thoughts about my being out late.

My sisters who hum their illusions,

simple but noisy,

in their work for the oncoming feast,

and now almost nothing is wanting.

I wait, I wait, the heart

an egg that in its right moment obstructs itself.

Numerous family that we left recently,

they’re still awake and not one candle set

on the altar for our homecoming.

I call again and nothing,

we shut up and we start to sob, and the animal

neighs, neighs more and more.

They are asleep forever,

they’re so fine, that finally

my horse becomes weary when turning

his head, and in half sleep, in each greeting, says

that he’s alright, that everything is alright.