By Édgar Javier Ulloa Luján
I, that orphan who played at cemeteries
along with the public parks that never existed.
Nobody knows about me.
I, a bad seed living amongst the dead
I’ve learned to wash my grandfather’s bloody clothes
akin to money laundering in casinos and bureaus de change.
I, a trafficker on a winged bus
headed for Mexico’s northern border
with narcocorridos of my drug cartel
headed for the weaponry empire
to run an errand in El Paso, Texas
across an international bridge
a bridge thwart a narrow contaminated canal
a bridge thwart a Bush’s hateful electric fence.
I, a smuggler in Tijuana’s underground tunnels
a murderer by trade.
No one blocks me; I sell at wholesale or retail;
I know how to control the deadly illegal market
and hide the traces
of my steps.
The goat horns: AK-47.
The fallen white feathers, practically spotless;
Gone: a house left behind, and a neighborhood with no schools
Memory: my grandmother
a slave to the toxic manufacturing plant.
And my dream:
To triumph in soap operas.
Guns were my toys
days of yore, portrayed today
that die with spent cartridges
as well as the dead.
Whilst the poets write their poems,
I annihilate the poor
I do them a favor, so don’t fuck with me.
Traducido por Finella Halligan y Édgar Javier Ulloa Luján