Like a sad Sumerian,
lost among distant, unimaginable horizons
I write on fragments of soaked clay
the dawning stillness of your name and your waist.
Each letter is a wound, each vowel stirs fears and whimpers.
You haven’t left yet, and yet
the household goods grieve and hurt.
The omen of your absence remains in the halls,
an emptiness yet to come, a muteness marking the end of your words,
a song with lyrics that caress our history.
The time to leave hasn’t arrived
and the resting clocks look dejected
and your thighs now flicker fearfully
like fish clinging to a question mark.
You haven’t left yet
and yet the suspicion of having to wait hurts
José Mármol translated by Nathalie Handal, with Eileen O’Connor