I have big shoulders, like a boxer. They are not muscle, however, and their colorisdark.Theyaremysacsofpoison,thealmostunusedpoisonthatIbear, myburdenandmygreatresponsibility.Bigwingsofpoison,foldedonmyback.
Beware,Iamanangelindisguise;mywingsareevil,butnotdeadly.IfIwillit, the poison could break through, blue-black, and dangerous to all. Blue-black
fumeswouldriseupontheair.Beware,youfrivolouscrab.
StrayedCrab
Thisisnotmyhome.HowdidIgetsofarfromwater?Itmustbeoverthat
waysomewhere.
I am the color of wine, of tinta. The inside of my powerful right claw is saffron-yellow.See,Iseeitnow;Iwaveitlikeaflag.Iamdapperandelegant;I move with great precision, cleverly managing all my smaller yellow claws. I believeintheoblique,theindirectapproach,andIkeepmyfeelingstomyself.
But on this strange, smooth surface I am making too much noise. I wasn’t meantforthis.IfImaneuverabitandkeepasharplookout,Ishallfindmypool again. Watch out for my right claw, all passersby! This place is too hard. The rainhasstopped,anditisdamp,butstillnotwetenoughtopleaseme.
Myeyesaregood,thoughsmall;myshellistoughandtight.Inmyownpool are many small gray fish. I see right through them. Only their large eyes are opaque,andtwitchatme.Theyarehardtocatch,butI,Icatchthemquicklyin myarmsandeatthemup.
Whatisthatbigsoftmonster,likeayellowcloud,stiflingandwarm?Whatis itdoing?Itpatsmyback.Out,claw.There,Ihavefrighteneditaway.It’ssitting down,pretendingnothing’shappened.I’llskirtit.It’sstillpretendingnottosee me.Outofmyway,Omonster.Iownapool,allthelittlefishthatswiminit, andalltheskitteringwaterbugsthatsmelllikerottenapples.
Cheerup,Ogrievoussnail.Itapyourshell,encouragingly,notthatyouwill everknowaboutit.
AndIwantnothingtodowithyou,either,sulkingtoad.Imagine,atleastfour times my size and yet so vulnerable … I could open your belly with my claw.
You glare and bulge, a watchdog near my pool; you make a loud and hollow noise. I do not care for such stupidity. I admire compression, lightness, and agility,allrareinthislooseworld.
GiantSnail
Therainhasstopped.Thewaterfallwillroarlikethatallnight.Ihavecome
out to take a walk and feed. My body—foot, that is—is wet and cold and coveredwithsharpgravel.Itiswhite,thesizeofadinnerplate.Ihavesetmyself a goal, a certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there. Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely graze the ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles are already tired. I give the impression of mysteriousease,butitisonlywiththegreatesteffortofmywillthatIcanrise abovethesmalleststonesandsticks.AndImustnotletmyselfbedistractedby thoseroughspearsofgrass.Don’ttouchthem.Drawback.Withdrawalisalways best.
Therainhasstopped.Thewaterfallmakessuchanoise!(AndwhatifIfall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off such clouds of steam! Shiny streamersarehangingdowntheirsides.Whenthisoccurs,wehaveasayingthat the Snail Gods have come down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarpments,muchlessdreamofclimbingthem.
That toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched my love. Our proportionshorrifyourneighbors.
Rest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is like a pallid, decomposingleaf.What’sthattappingonmyshell?Nothing.Let’sgoon.
My sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from front to back, thewakeofaship,wax-whitewater,oraslowlymeltingfloe.Iamcold,cold, coldasice.Myblind,whitebull’sheadwasaCretanscare-head;degenerate,my four horns that can’t attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. They presstheearthandsuckithard.Ah,butIknowmyshellisbeautiful,andhigh, and glazed, and shining. I know it well, although I have not seen it. Its curled whitelipisofthefinestenamel.Inside,itisassmoothassilk,andI,Ifillitto perfection.
My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely opalescent ribbon:Iknowthis.
ButO!Iamtoobig.Ifeelit.Pityme.
If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack there for the night.Thewaterfallbelowwillvibratethroughmyshellandbodyallnightlong.
InthatsteadypulsingIcanrest.AllnightIshallbelikeasleepingear.
TheHangingoftheMouse
Early,earlyinthemorning,evenbeforefiveo’clock,themousewasbrought out, but already there were large crowds. Some of the animals had not gone to bedthenightbefore,buthadstayeduplaterandlater;atfirstbecauseofavague feeling of celebration, and then, after deciding several times that they might as wellwanderaboutthetownforanhourmore,toconcludethenightbyarriving at the square in time for the hanging became only sensible. These animals hiccuppedalittleandhadanairofcynicallassitude.Thosewhohadgotupout ofbedtocomealsoappearedwearyandsilent,butnotsobored.
The mouse was led in by two enormous brown beetles in the traditional picturesque armor of an earlier day. They came on to the square through the smallblackdoorandmarchedbetweenthelinesofsoldiersstandingatattention: straightahead,totheright,aroundtwosidesofthehollowsquare,totheleft,and outintothemiddlewherethegallowsstood.Beforeeachturnthebeetleonthe right glanced quickly at the beetle on the left; their traditional long, long antennae swerved sharply in the direction they were to turn and they did it to perfection.Themouse,ofcourse,whohadhadnomilitarytrainingandwho,at the moment, was crying so hard he could scarcely see where he was going, rather spoiled the precision and snap of the beetles. At each corner he fell slightlyforward,andwhenhewasjerkedintherightdirectionhisfeetbecame tangledtogether.Thebeetles,however,withoutevenlookingathim,eachtime liftedhimquicklyintotheairforaseconduntilhisfeetwereuntangled.
At that hour in the morning the mouse’s gray clothes were almost indistinguishablefromthelight.Buthiswhimperingcouldbeheard,andtheend of his nose was rose-red from crying so much. The crowd of small animals tippedbacktheirheadsandsniffedwithpleasure.
Araccoon,wearingthetraditionalblackmask,wastheexecutioner.Hewas
veryfastidiousanddideverythingjustso.Oneofhisyoungsons,alsowearinga
black mask, waited on him with a small basin and a pitcher of water. First he washedhishandsandrinsedthemcarefully;thenhewashedtheropeandrinsed it. At the last minute he again washed his hands and drew on a pair of elegant blackkidgloves.
Alargeprayingmantiswasinchargeofthereligiousendoftheceremonies.
Hehurrieduponthestageafterthemouseandhisescorts,butoncethereafitof nervesseemedtoseizehim.Heglidedtotheleftafewsteps,totherightafew steps, lifted his arms gracefully, but could not seem to begin; and it was quite apparent that he would have liked nothing better than to have jumped quickly down and left the whole affair. When his arms were stretched to Heaven his large eyes flashed toward the crowd, and when he looked up, his body was twitchingandhemovedaboutinareallypatheticway.Heseemedtofeelillat ease with the low characters around him: the beetles, the hangmen, and the criminal mouse. At last he made a great effort to pull himself together and, approachingthemouse,saidafewwordsinahigh,incomprehensiblevoice.The mousejumpedfromnervousness,an
dcriedharderthanever.
At this point the spectators would all undoubtedly have burst out laughing, but just then the King’s messenger appeared on the balcony above the small black door the mouse and his guards had lately come through. He was a very large,overweightbull-frog,alsodressedinthetraditionalcostumeandcarrying thetraditionallongscrollthatdraggedforseveralfeetonthegroundandhadthe real speech, on a little slip of paper, pasted inside it. The scroll and the white plumeonhishatmadehimlookcomicallylikesomethinginanurserytale,but hisvoicewasimpressiveenoughtoawethecrowdintopoliteattention.Itwasa deep bass: “Glug! Glug! Berrr-up!” No one could understand a word of the mouse’sdeathsentence.
Withthehelpofsomepushesandpinchesfromthebeetles,theexecutioner
gotthemouseintoposition.Theropewastiedexquisitelybehindoneofhislittle roundears.Themouseraisedahandandwipedhisnosewithit,andmostofthe crowd interpreted this gesture as a farewell wave and spoke of it for weeks afterwards. The hangman’s young son, at a signal from his father, sprang the trap.
“Squee-eek!Squee-eek!”wentthemouse.
Hiswhiskersrowedhopelesslyroundandroundintheairafewtimesandhis feetflewupandcurledintolittleballslikeyoungfern-plants.
The praying mantis, with an hysterical fling of his long limbs, had disappearedinthecrowd.Itwasallsotouchingthatacat,whohadbroughther childinhermouth,shedseverallargetears.Theyrolleddownontothechild’s backandhebegantosquirmandshriek,sothatthemotherthoughtthatthesight of the hanging had perhaps been too much for him, but an excellent moral lesson,nevertheless.
1937
SomeDreamsTheyForgot
Thedeadbirdsfell,butnoonehadseenthemfly,
orcouldguessfromwhere.Theywereblack,theireyeswereshut,
andnooneknewwhatkindofbirdstheywere.But
allheldthemandlookedupthroughthenewfar-funneledsky.
Also,darkdropsfell.Night-collectedontheeaves,
orcongregatedontheceilingsovertheirbeds,
theyhung,mysteriousdrop-shapes,allnightovertheirheads,
nowrollingofftheircarelessfingersquickasdewoffleaves.
Wherehadtheyseenwood-berriesperfectblackasthese,
shiningjustsoinearlymorning?Dark-hearteddecoyson
upper-boughorbelow-leaf.Hadtheythought poison
andleft?or—remember—eatenthemfromtheloadedtrees?
Whatflowersshrinktoseedslikethese,likecolumbine?
Buttheirdreamsareallinscrutablebyeightornine.
1933
Song
Summerisoveruponthesea.
Thepleasureyacht,thesocialbeing,
thatdancedontheendlesspolishedfloor,
steppedandside-steppedlikeFredAstaire,
isgone,isgone,dockedsomewhereashore.
Thefriendshaveleft,theseaisbare
thatwasstrewnwithfloating,freshgreenweeds.
Onlytherusty-sidedfreighters
gopastthemoon’smarketlesscraters
andthestarsaretheonlyshipsofpleasure.
1937
HouseGuest
Thesadseamstress
whostayswithusthismonth
issmallandthinandbitter.
Noonecancheerherup.
Giveheradress,adrink,
roastchicken,orfriedfish—
it’sallthesametoher.
ShesitsandwatchesTV.
No,shewatcheszigzags.
“CanyouadjusttheTV?”
“No,”shesays.Nohope.
Shewatchesonandon,
withouthope,withoutair.
Herownclothesgiveuspause,
butshe’snotapoororphan.
Shehasafather,amother,
andallthat,andshe’searning
quitewell,andwe’restuffing
herwithfatteningfoods.
Weinvitehertousethebinoculars.
Wesay,“Comeseethejets!”
Wesay,“Comeseethebaby!”
Ortheknifegrinderwhocleverly
playstheNationalAnthem
onhiswheelsoshrilly.
Nothinghelps.
Shespeaks:“Ineedalittle
moneytobuybuttons.”
Sheseemstothinkit’suseless
toask.Heavens,buybuttons,
ifthey’lldoanygood,
thebiggestintheworld—
bythedozen,bythegross!
Buyyourselfanicecream,
acomicbook,acar!
Herfaceisclosedasanut,
closedasacarefulsnail
orathousand-year-oldseed.
Doesshedreamofmarriage?
Ofgettingrich?Hersewing
isdecidedlymediocre.
Please!Takeourmoney!Smile!
Whatonearthhavewedone?
Whathaseveryonedone
andwhendiditallbegin?
Thenonedaysheconfides
thatshewantedtobeanun
andherfamilyopposedher.
Perhapsweshouldlethergo,
ordeliverherstraightoff
tothenearestconvent—andwasn’t
hermonthuplastweek,anyway?
Canitbethatwenourish
oneoftheFatesinourbosoms?
Clotho,sewingourlives
withabonylittlefoot
onaborrowedsewingmachine,
andourfateswillbelikehers,
andourhemscrookedforever?
Trouvée
forMr.WheatonGalentine&Mr.HaroldLeeds
Oh,whyshoulda hen
havebeenrunover
onWest4thStreet
inthemiddleofsummer?
Shewasawhitehen
—red-and-whitenow,ofcourse.
Howdidshegetthere?
Wherewasshegoing?
Herwingfeathersspread
flat,flatinthetar,
alldirtied,andthin
astissuepaper.
Apigeon,yes,
oranEnglishsparrow,
mightmeetsuchafate,
butnotthatpoorfowl.
JustnowIwentback
tolookagain.
Ihadn’tdreamedit:
thereisahen
turnedintoaquaint
oldcountrysaying
scribbledinchalk
(exceptforthebeak).
GoingtotheBakery
[RiodeJaneiro]
Insteadofgazingatthesea
thewayshedoesonothernights,
themoonlooksdowntheAvenida
Copacabanaatthesights,
newtoherbutordinary.
Sheleansontheslacktrolleywires.
Below,thetracksslitherbetween
linesofhead-to-tailparkedcars.
(Thetinhideshavetheiridescence
ofdying,flaccidtoyballoons.)
Thetracksendinapuddleofmercury;
thewires,atthemoon’s
magneticinstances,takeoff
tosnarlindistantnebulae.
Thebakerylightsaredim.Beneath
ourrationedelectricity,
theroundcakeslookabouttofaint—
eachturnsupaglazedwhiteeye.
Thegooeytartsareredandsore.
Buy,buy,whatshallIbuy?
Nowflourisadulterated
withcornmeal,theloavesofbread
lielikeyellow-fevervictims
laidoutinacrowdedward.
Thebaker,sicklytoo,suggest
s
the“milkrolls,”sincetheystillarewarm
andmadewithmilk,hesays.Theyfeel
likeababyonthearm.
Underthefalse-almondtree’s
leatheryleaves,achildish puta
dances,feverishasanatom:
chá-cha,chá-cha,chá-cha.…
Infrontofmyapartmenthouse
ablackmansitsinablackshade,
liftinghisshirttoshowabandage
onhisblack,invisibleside.
Fumesof cachaçaknockmeover,
likegasfumesfromanauto-crash.
Hespeaksinperfectgibberish.
Thebandageglaresup,whiteandfresh.
Igivehimsevencentsin my
terrificmoney,say“Goodnight”
fromforceofhabit.Oh,meanhabit!
Notonewordmoreaptorbright?
UndertheWindow:OuroPrêto
forLilliCorreiadeAraújo
Theconversationsaresimple:aboutfood,
or,“Whenmymothercombsmyhairithurts.”
“Women.” “Women!” Womeninreddresses
andplasticsandals,carryingtheiralmost
invisiblebabies—muffledtotheeyes
inalltheheat—unwrapthem,lowerthem,
andgivethemdrinksofwaterlovingly
fromdirtyhands,herewherethereusedtobe
afountain,herewherealltheworldstillstops.
Thewaterusedtorunoutofthemouths
ofthreegreensoapstonefaces.(Onefacelaughed
andonefacecried;themiddleonejustlooked.
Patchedupwithplaster,they’reinthemuseum.)
Itrunsnowfromasingleironpipe,
astrongandropystream.“Cold.”“Coldasice,”
allhaveagreedforseveralcenturies.
Donkeysagree,anddogs,andtheneatlittle
bottle-greenswallowsdaretodipandtaste.
Herecomesthatoldmanwiththestickandsack,