Where Babies Really Come From By Anna Scotti *Traducción al Español*

De donde realmente vienen los bebés*

Te soñé existiendo, fui cuidadosa
de hacerte menos perfecto de lo que sabía
que serías, escogiendo las rodillas débiles de tu
abuela, la racha cruel de tu abuelo,
las pantorrillas delgadas de una tía, mi propia vanidad
cruel. Antes de que nacieras soñaba con
huesos de pollo, cuchillos y monedas, nubes en forma
de oveja, y tréboles y cardenales. Quemé incienso,
reuní plumas, agregué a incontables bebés de masa
pizcas de harina y sal. Siempre hubo miedo, siempre
hubo nostalgia, siempre esta negociación
con dioses sin nombre, dioses a quien les importaba si el
siguiente auto sería azul, si un perro ladrase antes de que yo alcance
los mil. Una vieja tocó a mi puerta, de ojos
claros, semblante amable, ofreciendo hongos e
higos, o platillos de crema, y yo cerré la puerta, incluso
en mi sueño. Esas son cosas de cuentos de hadas, nada de eso, mi amor.
Cuando el ave obscura voló contra el cristal mientras el atardecer
ablandaba el cielo, lo calenté en mis manos y lo mantuve
al sol. Su sangre obscura en mis dedos,
lo mantuve al sol.

*Translation to Spanish by Marjha Paulino



Where Babies Really Come From*

I dreamed you into existence, careful
to make you less perfect than I knew you
would be, choosing your grandmother’s weak
knees, your grandfather’s cruel streak,
an aunt’s meatless calves, my own callous
vanity. Before you were born I dreamed
of chicken bones, knives and coins, clouds shaped like
sheep, and shamrocks, and buntings. I burned incense,
gathered feathers, pinched countless dough babies
from flour and salt. Always there was fear, always
there was longing, always this bargaining
with nameless gods, gods who cared if the next car
would be blue, if a dog would bark before I reached
a thousand. An old woman knocked, bright
of eye, kind of countenance, offering mushrooms and
figs, or dishes of cream, and I shut the door, even
in my dream. That’s fairy-tale stuff; none of that, my love.
When the dark bird flew against the glass as dawn
softened the sky, I warmed him in my hands and held
him to the sun. His blood dark on my fingers,
I held him to the sun.

*This poem appears in the  New Yorker's  print and online edition of the August 5 & 12, 2019, issue.

Illustration: Gabriel Pacheco

Anna Scotti is an American poet and writer who teaches at a French international school in Los Angeles. Her poetry appears occasionally in The New Yorker and elsewhere. Her short stories can be found in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.