''Desde la Frontera de la Escritura'' (1987)
La tensión y el vacío alrededor de aquel espacio
cuando el coche para en la carretera, las tropas inspeccionan
el modelo y la matrícula, y mientras uno de ellos inclina la cabeza
hacia la ventana, te percatas de que hay más
apostados en una colina, más adelante, que te apuntan atentos
detrás de fusiles mecidos que te controlan
y todo es pura interrogación
hasta que un rifle te hace una señal y avanzas
con aceleración despreocupada, vigilada
un poco más vacío, un poco agotado
como sucede siempre con este estremecimiento del yo,
sojuzgado, sí, y obediente.
Y continúas conduciendo hasta la frontera de la escritura
donde todo vuelve a suceder. Los fusiles en los trípodes;
el sargento con la radio portátil repitiendo
tus señas, a la espera del grito de autorización;
el francotirador que se entrega contigo
lanzándose sobre ti desde el sol, como un halcón.
Y de repente ya has cruzado, acusado pero libre,
como si hubieras pasado desde detrás de una cascada
a la corriente negra de una carretera asfaltada
dejando atrás vehículos blindados, circulando
entre los soldados apostados que acuden y se alejan
del parabrisas brillante como sombras de árboles.
FROM THE FRONTIER OF WRITING
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration--
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration--
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
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