Song for a red nightgown
No. Not really red,
but the color of a rose when it bleeds.
It's a lost flamingo,
called somewhere Schiaparelli Pink
but not meaning pink, but blood and
those candy store cinnamon hearts.
It moves like capes in the unflawed
villages in Spain. Meaning a fire
layer and underneath, like a petal,
a sheath of pink, clean as a stone.
So I mean a nightgown of two colors
And of two layers that float from
the shoulders across every zone.
For years the moth has longed for them
but these colors are bounded by silence
and animals, half hidden but browsing.
One could think of feathers and
not know it at all. One could
think of whores and not imagine
the way of a swan. One could imagine the cloth of a bee
and touch its hair and come close.
The bed ravaged by such
sweet sights. The girl is.
The girl drifts up out of
her nightgown and its color.
Her wings are fastened onto
her shoulders like bandages.
The butterfly owns her now.
It covers her and her wounds.
She is not terrified of
begonias or telegrams but
surely this nightgown girl,
this awesome flyer, has not seen
how the moon floats through her
and in between.
but the color of a rose when it bleeds.
It's a lost flamingo,
called somewhere Schiaparelli Pink
but not meaning pink, but blood and
those candy store cinnamon hearts.
It moves like capes in the unflawed
villages in Spain. Meaning a fire
layer and underneath, like a petal,
a sheath of pink, clean as a stone.
So I mean a nightgown of two colors
And of two layers that float from
the shoulders across every zone.
For years the moth has longed for them
but these colors are bounded by silence
and animals, half hidden but browsing.
One could think of feathers and
not know it at all. One could
think of whores and not imagine
the way of a swan. One could imagine the cloth of a bee
and touch its hair and come close.
The bed ravaged by such
sweet sights. The girl is.
The girl drifts up out of
her nightgown and its color.
Her wings are fastened onto
her shoulders like bandages.
The butterfly owns her now.
It covers her and her wounds.
She is not terrified of
begonias or telegrams but
surely this nightgown girl,
this awesome flyer, has not seen
how the moon floats through her
and in between.
Anne Sexton
Canción para un camisón rojo
No. No rojo del todo,
sino más bien del color de la rosa cuando sangra.
Es un flamenco perdido,
llamado en algún sitio Rosa Schiaparelli
sin querer decir rosa, sino sangre y
esos corazones de canela de tiendas de golosinas.
Se mueve como las capas en los rústicos
pueblos de España. Pareciendo una capa
de fuego y debajo, como un pétalo,
una funda rosa, limpia como una piedra.
Me refiero a un camisón de dos colores
y de dos capas que flotan desde
los hombros hacia todas partes.
Durante años la polilla las ha anhelado
pero estos colores están unidos por el silencio
y por animales, medio escondidos que observan.
Uno podría pensar en plumas y
no saberlo en absoluto. Uno podría
pensar en putas y no imaginarse
la figura de un cisne. Uno podría
imaginar la tela de una abeja y
tocar su pelo y hacerse a la idea.
La cama está saqueada por tan
dulces visiones. La chica lo está.
La chica se eleva y sale de
su camisón y su color.
Sus alas están atadas a sus hombros como vendas.
Ahora la mariposa es su dueña.
La cubre, a ella y a sus heridas.
No esta aterrorizada por
begonias ni por telegramas pero
seguramente esta chica del camisón,
esta formidable criatura alada, no ha visto
cómo la luna flota a través de ella
y entre ella.
Traducción de Ben Clark
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