Pool
by Irene Gómez-Castallano
Translation by J.G. McClure
Already you know it doesn’t matter
how many laps you swim today, how well
you move the pencil of your body
between the lines in silence.
15, 30, 54, it doesn’t matter. No one
is listening as you bob your head,
rhythmic, harmonious, mute. When you swim
everything flows, dominated by your arms.
Your tongue spits only silences.
Wordless, you are beautiful
and your hair leaves its marks
above the verses of the water,
not drowning
in the waves’ enjambment.
You like your smooth somersault,
how it keeps your liquid body moving.
The pool is deaf but knows to listen.
Love this—the water lapping
your smooth and lonely body,
its tense marine joy.
Words are anemones
that blink at being spoken.
You would drown them
with your kisses. No one sees
the dark calligraphy trapped
between the water, the tiles glazed
like stars. Stay under.
Everything is beautiful, safe
in silent bubbles. These thoughts of yours—
they are so beautiful
before they break, before you speak
and they emerge, trade their tails
for legs and learn to live ashore.
20 20, 30, 64. It doesn’t matter
because as much as you swim,
as much as you breathe
to the rhythm of the water,
always this fishhook stays
caught in both your lips.
It doesn’t matter
how many silent lines
you write upon the water.
Your tongue will twist the hook.
Your words will start to rust
the second that they surface.
how many laps you swim today, how well
you move the pencil of your body
between the lines in silence.
15, 30, 54, it doesn’t matter. No one
is listening as you bob your head,
rhythmic, harmonious, mute. When you swim
everything flows, dominated by your arms.
Your tongue spits only silences.
Wordless, you are beautiful
and your hair leaves its marks
above the verses of the water,
not drowning
in the waves’ enjambment.
You like your smooth somersault,
how it keeps your liquid body moving.
The pool is deaf but knows to listen.
Love this—the water lapping
your smooth and lonely body,
its tense marine joy.
Words are anemones
that blink at being spoken.
You would drown them
with your kisses. No one sees
the dark calligraphy trapped
between the water, the tiles glazed
like stars. Stay under.
Everything is beautiful, safe
in silent bubbles. These thoughts of yours—
they are so beautiful
before they break, before you speak
and they emerge, trade their tails
for legs and learn to live ashore.
20 20, 30, 64. It doesn’t matter
because as much as you swim,
as much as you breathe
to the rhythm of the water,
always this fishhook stays
caught in both your lips.
It doesn’t matter
how many silent lines
you write upon the water.
Your tongue will twist the hook.
Your words will start to rust
the second that they surface.
Irene Gómez-Castellano holds a PhD from the University of Virginia and teaches modern and contemporary Spanish literature at the University of North Carolina – Chapel Hill. She is the author of La cultura de las mascaras. Her first poetry collection, Natación (Bokeh Press), won the 2015 Premio Victoria Urbano de Creación. See more at: www.irenegomezcastellano.com
J.G. McClure holds an MFA from the University of California – Irvine. His work appears in Best New Poets, Gettysburg Review, Green Mountains Review, and Birmingham Poetry Review, among others. His first collection, The Fire Lit & Nearing, is forthcoming (Indolent Books, May 2018). See more at: www.jgmcclure.com
J.G. McClure holds an MFA from the University of California – Irvine. His work appears in Best New Poets, Gettysburg Review, Green Mountains Review, and Birmingham Poetry Review, among others. His first collection, The Fire Lit & Nearing, is forthcoming (Indolent Books, May 2018). See more at: www.jgmcclure.com
A 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee, Gómez-Castellano's poem, translated by McClure, can be found in Issue 16 of Glassworks.
