The Day of the Earthquake

The day of the earthquake
the first thing I saw was my grandfather’s feet,
those yellow socks he bought in Paris
rocking in the rocking chair.
Drunkenly he told me: God has lots of money,
and quartz radios on which he listens to Mass
drinking tequila in rooms for rent.

My grandfather had cancer in his legs,
and at night he always awoke
at the end of a nightmare, still shaking,
but relieved because the pain was lost
in the morning’s restless murmurs.
The day of the earthquake I forgot to ask him
what phrase, what normal well-wishes
could prolong his time with us.

The day of the earthquake
everything we stood on came down
lifting up ashes and newspapers,
the t.v. went off and my camera fell to the floor.
My grandfather, crouched in a fetal position
was praying to return to his mother.

Death covered us for ten seconds
and my grandfather still didn’t take off
his thick, ghost blanket
(he had waited too long).
Later boys in uniform appeared
saying that the danger had passed
leaving jugs of water and a bagful of food.

They enclosed everything with rope as if it were a ring,
and took him away as he had wanted,
feet first
and eyes fixated on the ceiling.

Hundreds of volunteers now pave the streets
and the paper boy
has returned after a week of false news.
Everyone has stolen some of my pain,
I’ve spent five days alone
and with the smell of tobacco and a hangover I write this poem.
I am distracted by looking through the skylight.
My eyes point towards the moon and her age-old questions.
The day of the earthquake everything began, and everything ended.

--Jesús Llorente. Trans. Nick Leick.