(Para Margaret Randall)
Me hablas de Chile,
de la mujer que fue arrestada
con su marido y su hijo de cinco años.
Cuentas cómo los guardias torturaban a la mujer, al
hombre, al niño,
viendo todos todo,
“como les gusta a ellos”.
Cosas que son peores que la muerte.
Me imagino cogiendo entre mis dedos el pelo rubio ceniza
de mi hijo,
echándole la cabeza hacia atrás antes de que se entere de
lo que pasa,
degollándole, degollándome a mí misma
para evitarnos eso. Cosas peores que la muerte:
esta nueva idea invade mi vida. El guardia invade mi
vida, el desagüe de su cuerpo, “como les gusta a ellos”. Los ojos del chaval,
Dago,
viéndoles encima de su madre. Los ojos de la madre
viéndoles con Dago. Y nada que viví fue peor que la
muerte,
la vida era hermosa como nuestra sangre en el terrazo,
para evitarnos eso –los ojos de mi hijo en mí,
los míos en él– el cerdo en nuestros cuerpos,
obligándonos a mirar a nuestro enemigo ancestral y
reverenciarlo,
la eterna muerte misericordiosa
que nos deja marchar.
THINGS THAT ARE
WORSE THAN DEATH
(For Margaret
Randall)
You are speaking of
Chile,
of the woman who was arrested
with her husband and their five-year-old son.
You tell how the guards tortured the woman, the man, the child,
in front of each other,
"as they like to do."
Things that are worse than death.
I can see myself taking my son’s ash-blond hair in my fingers,
tilting back his head before he knows what is happening,
slitting his throat, slitting my own throat
to save us that. Things that are worse than death:
this new idea enters my life.
The guard enters my life, the sewage of his body,
"as they like to do." The eyes of the five-year-old boy, Dago,
watching them with his mother. The eyes of his mother
watching them with Dago. And in my living room as a child,
the word, Dago. And nothing I experienced was worse than death,
life was beautiful as our blood on the stone floor
to save us that — my son’s eyes on me,
my eyes on my son — the ram-boar on our bodies
making us look at our old enemy and bow in welcome,
gracious and eternal death
who permits departure.
of the woman who was arrested
with her husband and their five-year-old son.
You tell how the guards tortured the woman, the man, the child,
in front of each other,
"as they like to do."
Things that are worse than death.
I can see myself taking my son’s ash-blond hair in my fingers,
tilting back his head before he knows what is happening,
slitting his throat, slitting my own throat
to save us that. Things that are worse than death:
this new idea enters my life.
The guard enters my life, the sewage of his body,
"as they like to do." The eyes of the five-year-old boy, Dago,
watching them with his mother. The eyes of his mother
watching them with Dago. And in my living room as a child,
the word, Dago. And nothing I experienced was worse than death,
life was beautiful as our blood on the stone floor
to save us that — my son’s eyes on me,
my eyes on my son — the ram-boar on our bodies
making us look at our old enemy and bow in welcome,
gracious and eternal death
who permits departure.
Sharon Olds. Los muertos
y los vivos. Bartleby, 2006. Traducción: J. J. Almagro Iglesias y Carlos
Jiménez Arribas.
Imagen: Fernando Botero. Abu Ghraib, 2005.
