Day Fifteen

I  love this prompt with it’s intoxicating mix of found poetry and free writing so I did another, picking a language that may have more word roots in common than the last Icelandic which I really struggled with.
A las siete en punto, después del llanto helado de mi perro, desde hace treinta y cuatro años cierro la peluquería. Después me reúno con ese animal y voy barriendo todo el pelo acumulado en el día.
Odio el espejo desportillado, la navaja insensible, el olor dulzón del cabello sin lavar. Envidio los ojos desolados de mis clientes, las marcas secretas que diferencian sus cabezas.
¿Por qué entre todos los talentos no me tocó el amor?
Camino dormido sosteniendo una tijera y duermo porque gira esta silla y mi corazón es una correa de afilar interminable.
Me hice peluquero por fatalidad.
De tanto cortar pelo no aprendí a segar las cabezas.
Alas. The quiet – I despair,  though the head of my fathers dusty grace is a trenchant curator.

Blast this cicada plague – despite my reunion with these animals, oy voy! barricades do accumulate diasma.

Odious espadrilles – they are never sensible, dulcet in colour, in sin – lather.

Invidious banjo desolates my clients, evidence of desperate maracas difference in the cabana.

Why enter no talent to my beloved?

Cameo dominos sustain my tiara, sleeping pigs gyrate as silly cousins in never ending corridors.

My mice plague for fatalities.

Tango tartar pillow appraise the sugar cabbages.

but I just couldn’t resist going back to read the original poem by Carlos López Degregori which is just so lovely I’m reproducing it here which I know is totally beside the point. Still.

At seven on the dot, after my dog’s cold cries, I close the barbershop as I have done for thirty-four years. Then I meet with the animal and sweep up the whole day’s hair.

I detest the chipped mirror, the unfeeling razor, the cloying smell of unwashed scalps. I envy the desolate eyes, the secret marks that distinguish the skulls.

Why, among all possible talents, don’t I have love?

I sleepwalk holding scissors and I sleep because the chair revolves and my heart is an interminable strap that sharpens knives.

It was fate that made me a barber.

I learned to cut off hair instead of heads.


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