the winter anthology
Vol. 4
Pablo Tanguay
the translator
Under an umbrella, in the plaza of the saints.
One table, two chairs: the first signs of what occurred—
the flutter, the settled air, the wings etched with words
I tasted with another’s tongue. And birds
I couldn't name were there, and the waiter
in his apron, cupping his cigarette, staring at his sky,
and as the plaza blurred
and as my other’s tongue swelled
at the first faint pricks
of its new language
I invented what concerns me, and began
Una mesa, dos sillas: