Ma di, con quanti denti questo amor ti morde
Dante Alighieri.
Divina Commedia
(Paradiso Canto XXVI)
En este mundo nuestro existen escritores que sin proponérselo nos enseñan que el discurso social berreta y hegemónico nunca debería formar parte de la poesía. Son seres que se nos cruzan en el camino sin ninguna otra intención más que decirse a sí mismos, liberarse del pasado, cicatrizar; entienden que la vida es un don metido en una caja llena de oscuridad; intentan, desesperación mediando, hacer algo con ella. Lo que es decir, transformarla. Así nos transforman, así la realidad es solo el comienzo, así sus voces se hacen voces colectivas. No nos ven, eso es obvio, a veces no nos miran siquiera, no tienen otro propósito que sanar.
Satán dice
Estoy encerrada en una cajita de cedro
que tiene un cuadro de pastores pegado
sobre el panel central, tallado a los lados.
La caja se sostiene sobre unas patas curvas.
Tiene un cerrojo dorado con forma de corazón
pero ninguna llave. Escribo para salir
de la caja cerrada,
que huele a cedro. Satán
viene a mí en la caja cerrada
y dice: te dejaré salir. Di
Mi padre es una mierda. Digo
que mi padre es una mierda y Satán
se ríe y dice: Se está abriendo.
Di que tu madre es una puta.
Mi madre es una puta. Algo
se abre y se rompe cuando lo digo.
Mi espalda se endereza en la caja de cedro
como la espalda rosada de la bailarina de plástico
con un ojo de rubí que está descansando a mi lado
sobre el satén de la caja de cedro.
Di mierda, di muerte, di al carajo con el padre,
me dice Satán al oído.
El dolor del pasado encerrado zumba
en la caja infantil que está sobre la cómoda, bajo
el ojo terrible del estanque,
con rosas grabadas alrededor, donde
el odio hacia mí misma se miraba en la pena.
Mierda. Muerte. Al carajo con el padre.
Algo se abre. Satán dice:
¿No te sientes mucho mejor?
La luz parece quebrarse sobre el delicado
botón de edelweiss, tallado en madera de dos tonos.
También lo quiero, sabes
le digo al oscuro Satán
en la caja cerrada. Los amo, pero
estoy tratando de decir lo que nos ocurrió
en el pasado perdido. Seguro, dice él
y sonríe, seguro. Ahora di: tortura.
Veo, en la oscuridad impregnada de cedro,
que se abre el borde de la gran bisagra.
Di: la verga del padre, la concha
de la madre, dice Satán. Te dejaré salir.
El ángulo de la bisagra se ensancha
hasta que veo el contorno de la época
antes de que yo fuera, cuando ellos se
abrazaban en la cama. Cuando digo
las palabras mágicas, verga, concha
Satán dice suavemente: sal
Pero el aire que rodea la abertura
es pesado y denso como un humo ardiente.
Entra, dice, y siento su voz
que respira por la abertura.
La salida es a través de la boca de Satán.
Entra en mi boca, me dice, ya estás allí en realidad.
Y la enorme bisagra
empieza a cerrarse. Oh no, también
los amé!. Afirmo el cuerpo, lo tenso dentro
de la casa de cedro.
Satán sale aspirado por el ojo de la cerradura.
Me deja encerrada en la caja, sella
el cerrojo con forma de corazón con la cera de su lengua.
Ahora es tu ataúd, dice Satán.
Apenas lo escucho;
me caliento las
manos frías en el ojo de rubí
de la bailarina-
El fuego, el súbito descubrimiento de lo que es el amor.
Sharon Olds de Satán dice. 1979. Editorial Igitur.
Satan says
I am locked in a little cedar box
with a picture of shepherds pasted onto
the central panel between carvings.
The box stands on curved legs.
It has a gold, heart-shaped lock
and no key. I am trying to write my
way out of the closed box
redolent of cedar. Satan
comes to me in the locked box
and says, I’ll get you out. Say
My father is a shit. I say
my father is a shit and Satan
laughs and says, It’s opening.
Say your mother is a pimp.
My mother is a pimp. Something
opens and breaks when I say that.
My spine uncurls in the cedar box
like the pink back of the ballerina pin
with a ruby eye, resting beside me on
satin in the cedar box.
Say shit, say death, say fuck the father,
Satan says, down my ear.
The pain of the locked past buzzes
in the child’s box on her bureau, under
the terrible round pond eye
etched around with roses, where
self-loathing gazed at sorrow.
Shit. Death. Fuck the father.
Something opens. Satan says
Don’t you feel a lot better?
Light seems to break on the delicate
edelweiss pin, carved in two
colors of wood. I love him too,
you know, I say to Satan dark
in the locked box. I love them but
I’m trying to say what happened to us
in the lost past. Of course, he says
and smiles, of course. Now say: torture.
I see, through blackness soaked in cedar,
the edge of a large hinge open.
Say: the father’s cock, the mother’s
cunt, says Satan, I’ll get you out.
The angle of the hinge widens
until I see the outlines of
the time before I was, when they were
locked in the bed. When I say
the magic words, Cock, Cunt,
Satan softly says, Come out.
But the air around the opening
is heavy and thick as hot smoke.
Come in, he says, and I feel his voice
breathing from the opening.
The exit is through Satan’s mouth.
Come in my mouth, he says, you’re there
already, and the huge hinge
begins to close. Oh no, I loved
them, too. I brace
my body tight
in the cedar house.
Satan sucks himself out the keyhole.
I’m left locked in the box, he seals
the heart-shaped lock with the wax of his tongue.
It’s your coffin now, Satan says.
I hardly hear;
I am warming my cold
hands at the dancer’s
ruby eye—
the fire, the suddenly discovered knowledge of love.
with a picture of shepherds pasted onto
the central panel between carvings.
The box stands on curved legs.
It has a gold, heart-shaped lock
and no key. I am trying to write my
way out of the closed box
redolent of cedar. Satan
comes to me in the locked box
and says, I’ll get you out. Say
My father is a shit. I say
my father is a shit and Satan
laughs and says, It’s opening.
Say your mother is a pimp.
My mother is a pimp. Something
opens and breaks when I say that.
My spine uncurls in the cedar box
like the pink back of the ballerina pin
with a ruby eye, resting beside me on
satin in the cedar box.
Say shit, say death, say fuck the father,
Satan says, down my ear.
The pain of the locked past buzzes
in the child’s box on her bureau, under
the terrible round pond eye
etched around with roses, where
self-loathing gazed at sorrow.
Shit. Death. Fuck the father.
Something opens. Satan says
Don’t you feel a lot better?
Light seems to break on the delicate
edelweiss pin, carved in two
colors of wood. I love him too,
you know, I say to Satan dark
in the locked box. I love them but
I’m trying to say what happened to us
in the lost past. Of course, he says
and smiles, of course. Now say: torture.
I see, through blackness soaked in cedar,
the edge of a large hinge open.
Say: the father’s cock, the mother’s
cunt, says Satan, I’ll get you out.
The angle of the hinge widens
until I see the outlines of
the time before I was, when they were
locked in the bed. When I say
the magic words, Cock, Cunt,
Satan softly says, Come out.
But the air around the opening
is heavy and thick as hot smoke.
Come in, he says, and I feel his voice
breathing from the opening.
The exit is through Satan’s mouth.
Come in my mouth, he says, you’re there
already, and the huge hinge
begins to close. Oh no, I loved
them, too. I brace
my body tight
in the cedar house.
Satan sucks himself out the keyhole.
I’m left locked in the box, he seals
the heart-shaped lock with the wax of his tongue.
It’s your coffin now, Satan says.
I hardly hear;
I am warming my cold
hands at the dancer’s
ruby eye—
the fire, the suddenly discovered knowledge of love.
Sharon Olds, "Satan Says" from Satan Says. Copyright © 1980 by Sharon Olds. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by replay permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.
Source: Satan Says (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1980)
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