Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Andrea Cote

THE SNACK

Remember also María
those afternoons at four o’clock
in our burnt port
Our port
was rather a foundering bonfire
or a wasteland
or a flash of lightning.

Remember the lighted up ground,
and how we scratched the back of the earth
as if disinterring the green pasture.

The backyard where the snacks were handed out,
our plate brimming with onions
that our mother salted for us,
that our father bagged for us.

But in spite of everything,
you know,
we would have liked to invite God
to sit at the head of our table,
God but without the Word
without prodigies
and only so that you would know,
María,
that God is everywhere
and also in your plate of onions
even if it makes you cry.

But above all,
remember me and the wound,
before they grazed from my hands
in the wheat field of the onions
to make our bread
the hunger of all of our days
and so that now
that you don’t even remember
and the bad seed feeds the wheat field of the vanished
I reveal to you, María,
that it is not your fault
nor the fault of your forgetting,
that this is time
and this its doing.

LA MERIENDA

LA MERIENDA

También acuérdate María
de las cuatro de la tarde
en nuestro puerto calcinado.
Nuestro puerto
que era más bien una hoguera encallada
o un yermo
o un relámpago.

Acuérdate del sol encendido,
de nosotros rascando el lomo de la tierra
como para desenterrar el verde prado.

El solar donde repartían la merienda,
nuestro plato rebosante de cebollas
que para nosotros salaba mi madre,
que para nosotros pescaba mi padre.

Pero a pesar de todo,
tú lo sabes,
habríamos querido convidar a Dios
para que presidiera nuestra mesa,
a Dios pero sin verbo
sin prodigio
y sólo para que tú supieras,
María,
que Dios está en todas partes
y también en tu plato de cebollas
aunque te haga llorar.

Pero sobre todo,
acuérdate de mí y de la herida,
de antes de que pastaran de mis manos
en el trigal de las cebollas
para hacer de nuestro pan
el hambre de todos nuestros días
y para que ahora,
que tú ya no te acuerdas
y que la mala semilla alimenta el trigal de lo desaparecido
yo te descubra, María,
que no es tu culpa
ni es culpa de tu olvido,
que es este el tiempo
y este su quehacer.
Close

THE SNACK

Remember also María
those afternoons at four o’clock
in our burnt port
Our port
was rather a foundering bonfire
or a wasteland
or a flash of lightning.

Remember the lighted up ground,
and how we scratched the back of the earth
as if disinterring the green pasture.

The backyard where the snacks were handed out,
our plate brimming with onions
that our mother salted for us,
that our father bagged for us.

But in spite of everything,
you know,
we would have liked to invite God
to sit at the head of our table,
God but without the Word
without prodigies
and only so that you would know,
María,
that God is everywhere
and also in your plate of onions
even if it makes you cry.

But above all,
remember me and the wound,
before they grazed from my hands
in the wheat field of the onions
to make our bread
the hunger of all of our days
and so that now
that you don’t even remember
and the bad seed feeds the wheat field of the vanished
I reveal to you, María,
that it is not your fault
nor the fault of your forgetting,
that this is time
and this its doing.

THE SNACK

Remember also María
those afternoons at four o’clock
in our burnt port
Our port
was rather a foundering bonfire
or a wasteland
or a flash of lightning.

Remember the lighted up ground,
and how we scratched the back of the earth
as if disinterring the green pasture.

The backyard where the snacks were handed out,
our plate brimming with onions
that our mother salted for us,
that our father bagged for us.

But in spite of everything,
you know,
we would have liked to invite God
to sit at the head of our table,
God but without the Word
without prodigies
and only so that you would know,
María,
that God is everywhere
and also in your plate of onions
even if it makes you cry.

But above all,
remember me and the wound,
before they grazed from my hands
in the wheat field of the onions
to make our bread
the hunger of all of our days
and so that now
that you don’t even remember
and the bad seed feeds the wheat field of the vanished
I reveal to you, María,
that it is not your fault
nor the fault of your forgetting,
that this is time
and this its doing.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère