Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hernán Bravo Varela

And Our Supreme Stepmother: Look at Her Now, Undone

United States of Mexico

—I’d be a perfect
bachelor for the fatherland,
but this job calls
for dedication,
unerring self-
obedience,
a love opposed
to the civilian urges
of the conscripts
(boot-licking; saying
yes, General, sir,
then doing twenty pushups;
waking at five,
although the coast
is clear,
sheets blemished by a dream
that had no one
to share the cot with).

—It’s a tall order
in this fertile place
where everything is served
upon a silver platter:
bananas, avocados,
raw milk candies,
hot peppers, heads
of youthful Baptists.

—General, sir, it’s time
for me to serve my country
its pair of nuts.
It’s hungry and it wants
there to be enough for everyone.
But don’t you think
it would be best to keep them out?
Service demands
transparency and solitude
and savings as vocation.
And we all know
we’re cannon fodder, tempests
in a teapot,
a race of bronze
pilfered from bells.
(How about that:
I’m over here,
giving him orders,
when I’m supposed to be
doing my twenty pushups
in a corner,
learning the hard way.)

—You need a pair of those
to eat alone
when these could be
the last coyote pups,
the final baptism,
the one-more-for-the-road.


—It would be me, you know,
but the angel’s calling me by name,
the team, the triumph
and the origin of
my species;
I’m called to funerals
too crowded for another soul to fit.
And I, who bore
the flag on Mondays,
and ordered marching
in double time,
I don’t know how to quit—
to leave the guard
and try self-service;
put on an apron,
a dirty shirt,
and wash my hands with lots of soap
after I give the change back
to my country.

—But before I stand at attention,
before I mark my forehead
with an X,
before we file out dressed
as duty specifies
and grab those dogs
who mount and thrust,
General, sir,
why don’t we spoil ourselves a little:
how do you like your nuts, blanched
or toasted?

Y nuestra gran madrastra, mírala hoy deshecha

Y nuestra gran madrastra, mírala hoy deshecha

—Yo sería un perfecto
soltero de la patria,
pero se necesita
compromiso,
fidelidad a uno
sin reservas,
un amor que se oponga
al deseo civil
de los conscriptos
(lamer botas, decirle
que sí a mi general
y darle veinte abajo,
levantarse
a las cinco, sin moros
en la costa,
con la huella de un sueño
que no tuvo
sus cómplices de catre).

—Se pide mucho
en un lugar tan fértil
donde todo se da
en charola de plata:
aguacates y plátanos,
dulces de leche bronca,
chiles y cabezas
de jóvenes bautistas.

—Mi general, me toca
servirle a mi país
su par de huevos.
Viene con hambre y quiere
que alcance para todos.
Pero, si me permite,
¿no sería
mejor traerlos puestos?
Para servir nos falta
soledad, vocación
de ahorro, transparencia.
Y sabido es que somos
despilfarro, pólvora
quemada en infiernitos,
raza de bronce
volado de campanas.
(Mire nomás:
estoy aquí, diciéndole
sus cosas
cuando yo debería
estarle dando veinte
en un rincón,
creciéndome al castigo.)

—Se necesitan huevos
para comer a solas
cuando éstas pueden ser
las últimas gallinas
del pollero,
el bautizo final,
la caminera.


—Yo lo sería,
pero me llama el Ángel,
la selección, el triunfo
y el origen
de mi especie;
me llaman funerales
donde no cabe un alma.
Yo, que fui
abanderado en lunes,
que ordenaba los pasos
redoblados,
no sé dejarlo todo,
abandonar la escolta
y estar de autoservicio;
ponerme el delantal,
la camiseta sucia,
lavarme bien las manos
tras devolverle el cambio
a mi país.

—Pero antes que me cuadre,
que me ponga
la X en la frente
y salgamos vestidos
al deber,
a agarrar a esos perros
que se montan,
mi general,
démonos un gustito:
¿los prefiere revueltos
o estrellados?
Close

And Our Supreme Stepmother: Look at Her Now, Undone

United States of Mexico

—I’d be a perfect
bachelor for the fatherland,
but this job calls
for dedication,
unerring self-
obedience,
a love opposed
to the civilian urges
of the conscripts
(boot-licking; saying
yes, General, sir,
then doing twenty pushups;
waking at five,
although the coast
is clear,
sheets blemished by a dream
that had no one
to share the cot with).

—It’s a tall order
in this fertile place
where everything is served
upon a silver platter:
bananas, avocados,
raw milk candies,
hot peppers, heads
of youthful Baptists.

—General, sir, it’s time
for me to serve my country
its pair of nuts.
It’s hungry and it wants
there to be enough for everyone.
But don’t you think
it would be best to keep them out?
Service demands
transparency and solitude
and savings as vocation.
And we all know
we’re cannon fodder, tempests
in a teapot,
a race of bronze
pilfered from bells.
(How about that:
I’m over here,
giving him orders,
when I’m supposed to be
doing my twenty pushups
in a corner,
learning the hard way.)

—You need a pair of those
to eat alone
when these could be
the last coyote pups,
the final baptism,
the one-more-for-the-road.


—It would be me, you know,
but the angel’s calling me by name,
the team, the triumph
and the origin of
my species;
I’m called to funerals
too crowded for another soul to fit.
And I, who bore
the flag on Mondays,
and ordered marching
in double time,
I don’t know how to quit—
to leave the guard
and try self-service;
put on an apron,
a dirty shirt,
and wash my hands with lots of soap
after I give the change back
to my country.

—But before I stand at attention,
before I mark my forehead
with an X,
before we file out dressed
as duty specifies
and grab those dogs
who mount and thrust,
General, sir,
why don’t we spoil ourselves a little:
how do you like your nuts, blanched
or toasted?

And Our Supreme Stepmother: Look at Her Now, Undone

United States of Mexico

—I’d be a perfect
bachelor for the fatherland,
but this job calls
for dedication,
unerring self-
obedience,
a love opposed
to the civilian urges
of the conscripts
(boot-licking; saying
yes, General, sir,
then doing twenty pushups;
waking at five,
although the coast
is clear,
sheets blemished by a dream
that had no one
to share the cot with).

—It’s a tall order
in this fertile place
where everything is served
upon a silver platter:
bananas, avocados,
raw milk candies,
hot peppers, heads
of youthful Baptists.

—General, sir, it’s time
for me to serve my country
its pair of nuts.
It’s hungry and it wants
there to be enough for everyone.
But don’t you think
it would be best to keep them out?
Service demands
transparency and solitude
and savings as vocation.
And we all know
we’re cannon fodder, tempests
in a teapot,
a race of bronze
pilfered from bells.
(How about that:
I’m over here,
giving him orders,
when I’m supposed to be
doing my twenty pushups
in a corner,
learning the hard way.)

—You need a pair of those
to eat alone
when these could be
the last coyote pups,
the final baptism,
the one-more-for-the-road.


—It would be me, you know,
but the angel’s calling me by name,
the team, the triumph
and the origin of
my species;
I’m called to funerals
too crowded for another soul to fit.
And I, who bore
the flag on Mondays,
and ordered marching
in double time,
I don’t know how to quit—
to leave the guard
and try self-service;
put on an apron,
a dirty shirt,
and wash my hands with lots of soap
after I give the change back
to my country.

—But before I stand at attention,
before I mark my forehead
with an X,
before we file out dressed
as duty specifies
and grab those dogs
who mount and thrust,
General, sir,
why don’t we spoil ourselves a little:
how do you like your nuts, blanched
or toasted?
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