Lament for Juan Gelman's Moustache
Translated By G.J. Racz
All at once that stubborn dog of a heart
stopped barking at Lady Poetry, jumped
over the wall where the sacred crows of
Kashmir dwelt and said: I've come into
this world to stay. It can't be, protested
the daffy nurses of Pickapoon Hospital.
It can't be, the guardians of the public
order responded in chorus. All at once
that heart stopped leaping, not in his
beloved Buenos Aires where he'd mis-
placed his violin for good or in Ukraine
where José sawed timber and memorized
train schedules. That stubborn dog of a
heart kept singing in the face of turbulence,
never knowing whether the Lady would
arrive. He put bars on his verses because
of issues with his lungs and thanked the
little birds that ate from his hand. He fed
the crows as well—"breadcrumbing," he'd
call it—ringing a bell while quoting
mystics in their native tongues. This is
why I've come, he'd say, but all at once
that stubborn dog of a heart stopped
speaking and drew a giant moustache
high up in the spheres. You can see it
if you dare listen to their music.
Copyright Credit: Eduardo Chirinos, "Lament for Juan Gelman’s Mustache" from Still Life with Flies. Translated by G.J. Racz. Copyright © 2016 by Dos Madres Press. Reprinted by permission of Dos Madres Press.