Noviembre / José Barroeta

November

                                                  To Mario Abreu

Let’s go look for my father,
November.
My body is full of apples
and I could go out into the hills
with your month's name,
to wait for the stars to come out
and take us to him,
to his black head lost in the mud.
We’re passing the houses,
where your clarity November
frightens the women
to look for my father at the bottom of the soup
that boils.
Let’s enter the cadaver through the gold holes
that the rabbits open
and let’s watch how you pose in them November
close in the eyes to animal convulsion.
Don’t leave home without tracing
neither river nor stone nor forest
go right in at the hollow
right at November’s skin
and take me to the warm place of the dead.
Leave your busy bee clearness as a symbol
that my dead father is found anywhere
nourished by that love I give the night when
I look for him.
Leave me fixed and uninjured,
clear
like the woman who lives in my body,
as I prepare the return to the sky of the cadaver
I seek
and it moves mysteriously in god like the first movement
that was made in the world,
quick and fertile like the dead father
I seek with you November.




El arte de anochecer (1975)




{ José Barroeta, Todos han muerto: Poesía completa (1971-2006), Barcelona: Editorial Candaya, 2006 }