Translated from Spanish by Kelsi Vanada
The party has asked me to speak about the publishing house. This has slightly altered the angle of my sadness, though I can’t tell if it’s higher or lower. The party won’t put the spotlight on you if you’ve never written a poem steeped in the waters of history, which I’m not sure about. But that doesn’t bother me. I know about the light tech guy. He’s like me or tougher. He explained to me that, at just the right strength, spotlights can erase a lit-up person’s memories.
Thinking about that ignites me like a football player. A light-footed player with a broad back, cutting through a cloud bank.
The party wants me to speak about the publishing house on national television tomorrow morning. They want me to speak while everyone’s building up the country. “But I don’t have the voice of an artist,” I think between staggering steps. I have no right to speak, I’m like my friend the light tech. But the party doesn’t get that; it’s not up for discussion. Tomorrow morning I’ll speak, and that beam will light me up and I’ll lose all my memories; I’ll feel the light tech’s eyes lost in the conspiratorial darkness that comes before death.