Own Goal by Ricardo Castillo

I was born in Guadalajara.
My first parents where Mum Lupe and Dad Guille.
I grew up like a clover in the garden,
like a five-cent coin, like a tortilla.
I grew up with denied reality in the kidneys,
with corny words in love’s cabin.
My mother cried between the chinks
with her anger in the dark, with groping violence.
My father died looking at me in the eyes,
dying in the slow bed of years,
demanding to life.
And then my grandfather’s blindness, the brothers,
my cousins’ sexual helplessness,
the barrio among the shadows
and then myself, so prying, so melodramatic.
I have always been a good for nothing.
I have not done anything but to count the anihilation.
As someone once said to me: What a Fucker.

(trans. by Aurelio Meza)

Ricardo Castillo was born in 1954. I know he is not that young now, but I just couldn't help it. This poem has got me. I read it for the first time in the bilingual anthology Connecting Lines/Líneas conectadas, which gathers American and Mexican poets born after 1945. I don't remember the name of the translator (and I don't have the book right now), but I do remember his excellent choice for the last two words: "Valgo Madre." I don't think my translation is better than that of Connecting Lines. This is just an excercise for the sake of poetry.