I, X [Aquel temblor del muslo]

by Luis García Montero

Aquel temblor del muslo

y el diminuto encaje

rozado por la yema de los dedos,

son el mejor recuerdo de unos días

conocidos sin prisa, sin hacernos notar,

igual que amigos tímidos.

Fue la tarde anterior a la tormenta,

con truenos en el cielo.

Tú apareciste en el jardín, secreta,

vestida de otro tiempo,

con una extravagante manera de quererme,

jugando a ser el viento de un armario,

la luz en seda negra

y medias de cristal,

tan abrazadas

a tus muslos con fuerza,

con esa oscura fuerza que tuvieron

sus dueños en la vida.

Bajo el color confuso de los flores salvajes,

inesperadamente me ofrecías

tu memoria de labios entreabiertos,

unas ropas difíciles, y el rayo

apenas vislumbrado de la carne,

como fuego lunático,

como llama de almendro donde puse

la mano sin dudarlo.

Por el jardín, el ruido de los últimos pájaros,

de las primeras gotas en los árboles.

Aquel temblor del muslo

y el diminuto encaje, de vello traspasado,

su resistencia elástica

vencida con el paso de los años,

vuelven a ser verdad, oleaje en el tacto,

arena humedecida entre las manos,

cuando otra vez, aquí, de pensamiento,

me abandono en la dura solución de tus ingles

y dejo de escribir

para llamarte.

I, X [That tremble of thigh]

by Luis García Montero

That tremble of thigh

and little lace

brushed by fingertips

are the best memory of a few days

known without hurry, without documentation,

like timid friends.

It was the afternoon before the storm,

thunder in the sky.

You appeared in the garden, secret,

dressed in clothes of a different time,

with an extravagant manner of wanting me,

pretending to be the wind in a wardrobe,

the light in black silk

and glass stockings

so pressed

to your thighs, forcefully,

with that dark force

of their masters in life.

Under the confused color of the wild flowers,

unexpectedly you offered me

the memory of your open lips,

some difficult clothing, and the beam of light

barely glimpsed on your flesh,

like lunatic fire,

like the flame of an almond tree where I placed

my hand without doubt.

In the garden, the noise of the last birds,

of the first raindrops in the trees.

That tremble of thigh

and little lace, of trespassed body hair,

its elastic resistance

defeated by the pass of the years,

become real again, swell of waves to the touch,

damp sand between thehands,

when again, here, in my thoughts

I give myself up to the difficult solution of your groin

and I stop writing

in order to call you.

translated from Spanish by Alice McAdams

Luis García Montero has written over forty books of poetry, novels, and essays, and is the recipient of the Adonáis Prize, the Loewe Prize, the Spanish National Literature Prize, and the Spanish National Critics Prize. Along with his active work in the literary sphere, he is a prominent voice of Spain’s political left and recently helped found the party Open Left (Izquierda Abierta). He has been writing and publishing in Granada for over three decades.

Alice McAdams is a current Master’s student at Middlebury College in Madrid and will begin a PhD in Spanish literature at the University of Michigan in the fall of 2014. She began studying and translating García Montero as part of her senior thesis at Oberlin College. Her translations of García Montero’s poetry have been published in Typo and Asymptote and are forthcoming in Mid-American Review. When not in Spain, she lives in Madison, Wisconsin.