The news will begin at nine,

the priest will withdraw his eyes from the tattered Bible,

the clock's pendulum

will reach the slow apex of its trajectory.

A coy phrase will be interrupted,

choked by an arrow of silence.

The knife will pardon the meat on the plate

for just one moment, in hundreds of kitchens

hundreds of spoons

will remain suspended at the threshold of the mouth

when a bakelite-filtered bee voice decides,

"All of the shots were to the front,

according to the latest news."

Then, the spoon will continue on its way toward the mouth,

even if the soup is now suddenly cold,

the Bible will once again slurp the cowardliness of the eyes,

the pendulum will plummet into the abyss

like a suicidal skydiver.

Perhaps someone will feel for a shirt pocket

—a pack of cigarrettes being the alibi—

and find that there remains a faint heartbeat.

The knife will scratch and mark the plate

with a soft, almost seemless incision

down below under the meat

where it really hurts.


It is in that same diagonal direction

suggested by the knife

that we will open our bedsheets.


  © Harkaitz Cano
   © itzulpenarena: Justin Crumbaugh