I have not ever seen my father's grave.
Not that his judgment eyes
have been forgotten
nor his great hands' print
on our evening doorknobs
one half turn each night
have been forgotten
nor his great hands' print
on our evening doorknobs
one half turn each night
and he would come
with the world's business
massive and silent
as the whole day's wish
ready to redefine
each of our shapes
but now the evening doorknobs
wait and do not recognize us
as we pass.
with the world's business
massive and silent
as the whole day's wish
ready to redefine
each of our shapes
but now the evening doorknobs
wait and do not recognize us
as we pass.
Each week a different woman
regular as his one quick glass
each evening
pulls up the grass his stillness grows
calling it weed.
Each week a different woman
has my mother's face
and he
who time has changeless
must be amazed
who knew and loved
but one.
My father died in silence
loving creation
and well-defined response
he lived still judgments
on familiar things
and died knowing
a January 15th that year me.
each evening
pulls up the grass his stillness grows
calling it weed.
Each week a different woman
has my mother's face
and he
who time has changeless
must be amazed
who knew and loved
but one.
My father died in silence
loving creation
and well-defined response
he lived still judgments
on familiar things
and died knowing
a January 15th that year me.
Lest I go into dust
I have not ever seen my father's grave.
I have not ever seen my father's grave.
Audre Lorde, 1960
*
PADRE HIJO Y ESPÍRITU SANTONunca he visto la tumba de mi padre.
No es que sus juiciosos ojos
hayan sido olvidados
ni la huella de sus enormes manos
en nuestros pomos del crepúsculo
media vuelta cada noche
y él venía
embarrado de asuntos del mundo
gigante y silencioso
como deseo del día entero
listo para redefinir
cada una de nuestras figuras
pero ahora los pomos del crepúsculo
esperan y no nos reconocen
al pasar.
Cada semana una mujer distinta
puntual como la copita de mi padre
cada crepúsculo
arranca la hierba que la quietud de él siembra
llamándola maleza.
Cada semana una mujer distinta
tiene el rostro de mi madre
y él
que el tiempo tiene inmutable
ha de estar perplejo
él que conoció y amó
sólo a una.
Mi padre murió en silencio
amando la creación
y el responsorio bien dicho
vivió juicios mudos
de cosas familiares
y murió conociéndome
un 15 de enero de aquel año a mí.
No sea que me convierta en polvo
nunca he visto la tumba de mi padre.
traducción de Torres Ruiz
