Hugo Gutiérrez Vega

translated by Anthony Seidman

Crime Sheet Photo
For Cesare Pavese

To leave the house one morning
without having a coffee, without saying a word,
without kissing the wife or the children,
to ride that streetcar,
and cross the garden without seeing
how the sun hangs its small suns
along the tree’s branch.
To cross the garden
without seeing a boy is gazing at us,
without seeing the blondes, brunettes, and the ashen-haired.

To pass by, weighed down by a deathly smile,
with a mouth clamped shut until it aches.

To step inside hotel after
hotel until finding one that’s quiet and remote,
to stretch out in the washed sheets
and without saying a word, without opening the window so that
the sun may not lodge its hope,
to pull the trigger.

I’ve said nothing.
Neither has the sun,
nor the flower that the girls gave us.

Hugo Gutiérrez Vega: A leading poet from the generation of the 50s. He currently resides in Mexico City where he edits the cultural supplement to
La Jornada, Mexico’s major newspaper.

Hugo Gutiérrez Vega © 2009
translated by Anthony Seidman © 2009