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Little Fire The woman had a little fire in a traditional place, ordinary, with various uses. She used it to devour. She used it to keep. She used it to wrap a man’s strength in red silk. She used it to give birth. She used it to laugh while smiling at night. The woman has died, like all very old animals. She is buried in a small field, where horses sleep beneath a lightless sky. But a little fire flies over the night of sleeping horses. They say that it is the sorrowing light of the spirits. They say that maybe it is the woman’s soul. But it is only that little fire, the one from the ordinary place, strong as a soul, that enlightens — and it enlightens. This fire, like the will-o’-the-wisp in the poem “Queimada” (as Eva Gillies points out to me in a personal correspondence), is an ignis fatuus, a phosphorescent light given off in marshes by rotting organic matter, which sometimes leads travelers into danger.
Fueguito La mujer tenía un fueguito en un lugar tradicional, común, de utilidades varias. Lo usó para devorar. Lo usó para guardar. Lo usó para envolver con seda roja la fuerza de un hombre. Lo usó para parir. Lo usó para reírse con sonrisa de noche. La mujer ha muerto, como todos los animales muy viejos. Está enterrada en un campo chico, donde duermen caballos bajo un cielo sin luces. Pero un fueguito sobrevuela la noche de caballos dormidos. Dicen que es la luz en pena de las ánimas. Dicen que acaso es el alma de la mujer. Pero solamente es el fueguito aquél, del lugar común, tan fuerte como un alma, que alumbra, y alumbra.
María Rosa Lojo |