Palingenesis

I was chatting with Archibald MacLeish in Los Marinos Bar

In Barceloneta when I saw her appear, a plaster statue

Walking arduously over the cobblestones. My friend

Saw, too, and sent a waiter to fetch her. For the first

Few minutes she didn't say a word. MacLeish ordered consommé and

Shellfish tapas, pan de payés with tomato and oil, and San Miguel beer.

I settled for a chamomile infusion and slices of

Wheat bread. I should take care of myself, I said. Then she decided to speak:

The barbarians are coming, she whispered melodiously, a deformed mass,

Pregnant with howls and oaths, a long night tossed up

To reveal the marriage of muscles and fat. Then

Her voice shut off and she set about devouring dishes.

A hungry and beautiful woman, said MacLeish, an irresistible temptation

For two poets, though from different languages, still from the same indomitable

New World. I said he was right without getting all of his words

And closed my eyes. When I woke MacLeish had gone. The statue

Was there in the street, her remains scattered on the irregular

Sidewalk and old cobblestones. The sky, hours before blue, had turned

Black as insurmountable rancor. It's going to rain, said a barefoot

Little boy, shivering for no apparent reason. We stared at each other a while:

With his finger he gestured to pieces of plaster on the ground. Snow, he said.

Don't shiver, I responded, nothing's going to happen, the nightmare, though close,

Has passed, barely touching us.