Alfredo Barnaby

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Late September in Lewiston, Idaho 

Bio

Born in Lima, Peru, Alfredo Barnaby moved to the Idaho when he was thirteen. He has since lived in the northwest of the country. He has a master’s degree in Spanish literature and wrote his thesis about Peruvian poet César Vallejo. He just finished a year of teaching English in Galicia, Spain, and visiting friends and family in Lima. He currently lives in Seattle, WA, which he’d like to make his home.

Uphill hauling a sack of hours,

hunched like death, night trudged on,

stars jingling on the breast, 

moon clasped with the lips.

 

Ajar door of a discreet evening,

the ravine murmured a crackle,

echoed the snap of the twig,

whistled, a last walker of dawn.

 

Boneless, moth at the sill of its gaze,

the raccoon rippled around stalks,

brushed the barbwire of blackberry bush,

tore the sleeveless dress of a tree,

 

and from a bare shoulder

heard the road’s chest swell,

exhale the passing journey— 

 

saw the field of shivering nets,

the procession of fallen snouts,  

the civil stretching the leather of gloved lips,

 

and stars hanging sunken,

as if night had groped  for its moon

on the burlap hills,

 

which he swept with a gold pan,    

scooping the sun’s ruby yawn,  

locking it among fruit from a caution tree

 

to hang it on a frame above rooftops,

past the latched arms of the balcony,

the heavy eyelids of the curtains.


 


Miraflores, 2013

Se nos deshoja la vida y aún así

nos soltamos sobre la silla con cojín,

sostenemos un café que no se entibia,

nos aflojamos la bufanda—en fin,

arropamos al niño y apagamos la luz.

                                   

Podríamos dibujar las anécdotas

que humean de otra mesa, 

escuchar el trote de canciones, 

hasta que la barrendera,

como un sueño voraz,

recoja el residuo de los trajines del día. 

 

Horas tintinean en bolsillos.

Se las regalamos a alcancías sin fondo.

Las gastamos en chucherías,

como sencillo que no esperábamos encontrar.

Aún así, tras vidrio nos escondemos,

cómodos ante la lejanía del transeúnte,

las noches sopladas.

 

De pronto, la música calla.

Los camareros se apresuran. El enrejado cae.

Como a carreta sin arriero,

cabizbajas,

nuestras pisadas nos arrastran

hacia una casa sin electricidad,

donde todos duermen

y no se puede despertar a nadie.

 

En rebelión,

rondamos por los cafés cerrados,

ventrílocuos sin muñecos.

© The Acentos Review 2014