Late September in Lewiston, Idaho
Bio
Born in Lima, Peru, Alfredo Barnaby moved to the Idaho when he was thirteen. He has since lived in the northwest of the country. He has a master’s degree in Spanish literature and wrote his thesis about Peruvian poet César Vallejo. He just finished a year of teaching English in Galicia, Spain, and visiting friends and family in Lima. He currently lives in Seattle, WA, which he’d like to make his home.
Uphill hauling a sack of hours,
hunched like death, night trudged on,
stars jingling on the breast,
moon clasped with the lips.
Ajar door of a discreet evening,
the ravine murmured a crackle,
echoed the snap of the twig,
whistled, a last walker of dawn.
Boneless, moth at the sill of its gaze,
the raccoon rippled around stalks,
brushed the barbwire of blackberry bush,
tore the sleeveless dress of a tree,
and from a bare shoulder
heard the road’s chest swell,
exhale the passing journey—
saw the field of shivering nets,
the procession of fallen snouts,
the civil stretching the leather of gloved lips,
and stars hanging sunken,
as if night had groped for its moon
on the burlap hills,
which he swept with a gold pan,
scooping the sun’s ruby yawn,
locking it among fruit from a caution tree
to hang it on a frame above rooftops,
past the latched arms of the balcony,
the heavy eyelids of the curtains.
Miraflores, 2013
Se nos deshoja la vida y aún así
nos soltamos sobre la silla con cojín,
sostenemos un café que no se entibia,
nos aflojamos la bufanda—en fin,
arropamos al niño y apagamos la luz.
Podríamos dibujar las anécdotas
que humean de otra mesa,
escuchar el trote de canciones,
hasta que la barrendera,
como un sueño voraz,
recoja el residuo de los trajines del día.
Horas tintinean en bolsillos.
Se las regalamos a alcancías sin fondo.
Las gastamos en chucherías,
como sencillo que no esperábamos encontrar.
Aún así, tras vidrio nos escondemos,
cómodos ante la lejanía del transeúnte,
las noches sopladas.
De pronto, la música calla.
Los camareros se apresuran. El enrejado cae.
Como a carreta sin arriero,
cabizbajas,
nuestras pisadas nos arrastran
hacia una casa sin electricidad,
donde todos duermen
y no se puede despertar a nadie.
En rebelión,
rondamos por los cafés cerrados,
ventrílocuos sin muñecos.