They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Vanishing Point | Valerie Mejer Caso
Torin Jensen, Translation

In the end they seemed to have a strange repose.

To have it without performing it.

Because it’s possible to perform the repose.

It’s possible when that chair is the same

chair in which your grandmother sat, and later your father. And you

too climbed onto it a year later, and in general, when someone says


the image of that chair comes

to your mind, because you and your grandmother and your father had a chair.

It is not so in this case.

Outside the cars are buried beneath the snow

today a girl’s fever put you on the edge of a fence

of ideas like airports

where flights have been cancelled,

by snow, by snow, by perfumed snow.

That end, in which these people seem to have a strange repose,

it’s not more than the beginning. Seated in sepia colors,

both hands

clasped, elbows on knees,

the head tilted forward,

all of that gives the impression that the worst has already passed

but stays in your mind,

like a sinking ship

occupies a space stranded at the bottom of the ocean.

Diving once, I saw huge fish like sharks, the density

of their danger, the darkness

and the marine flowers, and the reefs,

are still on my forehead

when I tilt my head forward, seated on the chair

that belonged to someone I didn’t know. Someone had

to sell it, and look at yourself there, seated, your country is the weight

that tests your repose,

the stillness of the sea while these things

fall inside of it.

The weight of these things, our weight,

is an affair detained

that speeds

among the stars

and there we’re standing,

beyond our chairs and those of others

with our hands up like we’re being arrested

when in truth, we are about to take off.