Apparently, it’s International Translation Day! (They really do think of everything.)
I’ve been working on another blog entry, but have been doing so much end-of-month paid work to make sure we’ll have enough money in November that I haven’t been able to edit it. Next week, it’s happening!
In the meantime, a poem from a few years ago, Saint Jerome’s Day. A lot has changed since I wrote it: a pandemic, a separation that’s still taking forever to transition to divorce, a new life. My daughter is older. But San Jerónimo is still being celebrated every year in nearby-Coatepec, the town that claims him as their patron saint.
Is it sand or sawdust
on the cobblestone streets?
San Jerónimo, patron saint of this agnostic translator and
way too concerned with women’s purity if you ask me
and plus, did you really tame that lion
because I find that hard to believe.
Laid out so beautifully, fleeting murals on the ground
of this still-small town in Mexico
ready for the cleansing by trampling
of the devout.
a make-shift monster of pine branches and burlap
boys showing off their strength
as they carry a 2-ton altar to the church
complete with their refrescos on top (offering or just a convenient carrying spot? I can never tell)
That kind of raw but self-conscious masculine energy
has always made me nervous
It’s way scarier to me than the one who cracks the whip
in front of my delightful drunk friend, trying to get a picture in the middle of the procession.
or the day-fireworks, all bark and nothing to look at
My daughter sits inside the café wanting sweets
Other times on her father’s shoulders shouting “¡Mira!” as this procession we don’t understand
marches and dances by
destroying the beautiful ground murals that
never would have lasted anyway.
Let’s not fear this transition and destruction anymore.