I am most grateful to Maria Del Castillo Sucerquia for the translations and making sure this works were included in the wonderful Ablucionistas.
https://ablucionistas.com/linda-imbler-el-testimonio-mas-evidente/
A TRAIN TO SOMEWHERE
I remember my grandparent’s enclosed porch,
their Boston Terriers nipping at my heels
as I entered the yard.
I enjoyed the reminiscences,
repeated at each visit.
I reveled in the laughter that ensued
after each anecdote about my childhood was concluded.
The story I remember most today
is the one about my lone field trip,
at the age of three,
to the neighborhood railroad tracks.
Little me, found by frantic people
and returned home safely.
In later years, my grandmother,
Alzheimer ridden,
was found wandering
those same railroad tracks
by equally frantic people.
I’ve wondered since
if we were looking for the same thing.
TREN A ALGÚN LUGAR
si buscábamos lo mismo
______________________________________
THE GLASS WINDOWS BEHIND THE PLANT
They stood together in the hall,
Each with a seemingly insurmountable fear.
He with a path so long, and the burden he carried so heavy,
She unable to lean forward from the eighth floor.
Together they promised each other,
One step at a time, one tile at a time,
Each step closer to the end of the hall,
Each tile closer to the window.
They began.
He went further,
She went further.
He channeled gazelles, swift and light,
She channeled eagles, high flying and fearless on the air.
His hospital gown trembled,
Her legs trembled.
At the end he’d walk the length several times
and had looked up and seen her smile,
At the end she had pressed her forehead
against the glass and looked down.
And he smiled back.
LAS VENTANAS DETRÁS DE LA PLANTA
HANDS
Hands,
fingers thin like paper,
on this mortal shell,
No evidence these hands
ever held a flower,
played an instrument,
typed a letter,
were ever extended to another to help or heal.
No, these fingertips,
flat and tapered,
stiff,
as it being held rigid against the will
of to whom they belong.
Of all the visible parts of that figure
in the funeral box,
the hands,
the most unnatural,
least human feature left
to share with those who’ve come to say goodbye.
Whoever can one day correct
this artless feature
will have his name lauded throughout the world.
Because those who view the deceased
see only quiet repose,
except for the hands,
the most glaring testament to death’s finality.
MANOS
manos
flacos dedos como el papel
en este caparazón mortal
no hay evidencia de que estas manos
hayan sostenido una flor
o tocado un instrumento
o escrito una carta
o si alguna vez se abrieron
para curar o ayudar
no las yemas de estos dedos
planos y cónicos
tan rígidos
(como si se mantuvieran rígidos
en contra de la voluntad
de quien pertenecen)
de todas las partes visibles
de aquella silueta
en el palco funerario
las manos
lo más antinatural
(lo menos humano que queda
para compartir con aquellos
que han venido a despedirse)
si alguien corrigiera esa ingenua apariencia
obtendría la ovación del mundo
(porque quienes miran al difundo
advertirían sólo un tranquilo reposo
sino fuera por las manos)
el testimonio más evidente
de la muerte
___________________________________
IF ONLY FOR MODESTY’S SAKE
I am undeserving of the sky.
My wings have followed
the history of Icarus.
I was so much like him.
My flight would always be noteworthy.
But, now I walk where green or golden foliage,
and assortments of rocks
litter the land
which trembles under dragons’ strides.
I wish for new magick,
an alchemy transmuting
those rocks and leaves into feathers.
For Icarus was not wrong,
just arrogant,
and if I fly with modesty.
I just might stay airborne.
SÓLO POR MODESTIA
soy indigna del cielo
mis alas siguieron la historia de Ícaro
sería mi vuelo digno de mención
sin embargo
ahora camino por el dorado y verde follaje
las rocas cubren la tierra que tiembla
bajo las zancadas de los dragones
deseo una nueva magia
una alquimia que transmute
las yerbas y las rocas
en plumas
Ícaro no se equivocó
sólo fue arrogante
si vuelvo con modestia
podría quedarme en el aire
_____________________________
IN THE DAYS OF LENNON
All satisfaction afforded
in that final frontier.
But here,
we square our shoulders,
while somewhere
in our vicinity,
someone closes weary eyes
for the last time.
Those having passed,
their ghost faces rising,
their spots recently vacated,
as new folks
repeat their gestures,
and God,
with an allegorical flick,
waves them through.
They continue living
with practiced eyes,
and only at the end
do they diminish,
turning into mysterious shadows.
Nothing so dire
as falling through a crack
by virtue of
their extraordinary activities,
having been performed
throughout their lives,
within the framework
of such a revolutionary thing
as love.
EN LOS DÍAS DE LENNON
toda satisfacción fue dada
en esa última frontera
pero aquí
cuadramos los hombros mientras
en algún lugar del barrio
alguien cierra los ojos
por última vez
los que pasan
(el asomo de sus rostros fantasmales
sus lugares recién desocupados
mientras la gente repite sus gestos
y Dios
con un alegórico movimiento
las ondea a través)
siguen vivos con ojos expertos
sólo al final disminuyen
se tornan sombras misteriosas
nada tan terrible como descender
por una grieta en virtud
de sus extraordinarias labores
las realizadas a lo largo de sus vidas
en el marco de algo tan revolucionario
como el amor
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