Una vez vi
a una serpiente comerse un conejo.
Cuarto
grado, el reptilario del zoológico
el conejo
duro, el hocico primero, arena pegada a su pelaje,
la cabeza
apretada en las anchas
mandíbulas
de la serpiente, la serpiente
tragándola
por su larga garganta.
Toda
garganta esa serpiente – no podía decir
dónde
terminaba la garganta, dónde empezaba
el cuerpo.
Recuerdo el recinto
de vidrio, cómo
esa serpiente
se tomó su
tiempo (todas las chicas se quejaban, gritaban
¿pero no
estaban asombradas, fascinadas,
diciendo
que no podíamos mirar pero mirábamos, no estábamos
atrapadas
por eso, no estábamos
imaginando
– qué estábamos imaginando?)
La srta.
Peterson nos apuró a que avancen, chicas,
pero no nos
podíamos mover. Era como si
un helecho se
desplegara, la mano
del
minutero se moviera por el reloj. No entendía por qué
la
serpiente no se ahogaba, el conejo nunca
se movía,
cómo las mandíbulas seguían abriéndose
más y más,
llevándoselo adentro, tal y como
yo estoy
tomando esto, despacio,
haciéndolo
mío en mi cuerpo:
este dolor.
Cuánto tarda
el cuerpo
en darse cuenta.
Nunca vas a
volver.
Versión de Tom Maver
°°°°°°°°
SLOWLY
I watched a snake once, swallow a rabbit.
Fourth grade, the reptile zoo
the rabbit stiff, nose in, bits of litter stuck to its fur,
its head clenched in the wide
jaws of the snake, the snake
sucking it down its long throat.
All throat that snake--I couldn't tell
where the throat ended, the body
began. I remember the glass
case, the way that snake
took its time (all the girls, groaning, shrieking
but weren't we amazed, fascinated,
saying we couldn't look, but looking, weren't we
held there, weren't we
imagining--what were we imagining?)
Mrs. Peterson urged us to move on girls,
but we couldn't move. It was like
watching a fern unfurl, a minute
hand move across a clock. I didn't know why
the snake didn't choke, the rabbit never
moved, how the jaws kept opening
wider, sucking it down, just so
I am taking this in, slowly,
taking it into my body:
this grief. How slow
the body is to realize.
You are never coming back.
I watched a snake once, swallow a rabbit.
Fourth grade, the reptile zoo
the rabbit stiff, nose in, bits of litter stuck to its fur,
its head clenched in the wide
jaws of the snake, the snake
sucking it down its long throat.
All throat that snake--I couldn't tell
where the throat ended, the body
began. I remember the glass
case, the way that snake
took its time (all the girls, groaning, shrieking
but weren't we amazed, fascinated,
saying we couldn't look, but looking, weren't we
held there, weren't we
imagining--what were we imagining?)
Mrs. Peterson urged us to move on girls,
but we couldn't move. It was like
watching a fern unfurl, a minute
hand move across a clock. I didn't know why
the snake didn't choke, the rabbit never
moved, how the jaws kept opening
wider, sucking it down, just so
I am taking this in, slowly,
taking it into my body:
this grief. How slow
the body is to realize.
You are never coming back.
