“Saturday”

A Poem by Marcio Junqueira, trans. by Johnny Lorenz

October 5, 2021  By Marcio Junqueira
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the sweet fragrance of the detergent
and the reminder (imprinted into the kitchen)
of a cigarette
discovering saturdays in saturday
discovering ant trails followed by the sunbeam
strained by the magnifying glass
(in) joys full of commas

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saturday was the waiting
during the week
chance encounters
between classes
now and then
returning together
from school at assis over to dona santinha’s house
i’d walk slowly
to never arrive
his eyes behind his glasses
focused on me
not on
the chatter of boys
mouths of girls
a cd’s liner notes
newspaper magazine guitar chords

(in front of the boys
we drew somewhat close
you liked music
and i
was the one you knew
who really knew music
no one imagined
the two of us
lying on the sofa
listening to caetano sing jokerman
the scent of your mouth
only i knew
my mother suspected
yours pretended
the boys no
the boys were
lobos bobos
dumb wolves
smoking carltons
in the courtyard
sniffing benzene
in the bathroom
i was all about books
and songs and films and quotes
playing house
far from the boys
you were my friend)

saturdays no
saturdays i wasted my day
inventing his
the handwriting exercises on alley walls
the dotted red line
pierced hearts
hovering
over puddles of black blood
the last drops hanging
preparing concentric circles
over the ground
and all the anguish of the world prowling the neighborhood
when the light diminished
it ignited fervors
nails bitten to the quick
oracles on license plates
liturgies around the phone
on stifling days
when sweat was a presage of rain
i’d cast my lure
i encountered the saga of the phoenix
discovered a poet who’s the shit
kept a joint just for us
and he’d come

stepping softly on the surface of the world
wiping his glasses with his shirt
and laughing shyly beautifully
he’d sit at my side mute
and listen to me soloing about everything
how the quartz prisms work in crystal clocks
the many lives of kiki de montparnasse
string theory, snuff films
marlon brando as mark antony
saturday and its difficult flesh

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(i was scared of silence
scared that a blank space between us
would shatter my teeth
bringing forth
shoals
of words, expectations
and escapist fantasies
that i’d chew on
in my room alone
on saturdays
far from him)

on a saturday in december
the sea invaded my house
even without some ridiculous ritual
he’d know
actually he’d always known
or suspected
afterward
there were so many saturdays, tuesdays, thursdays, and fridays
immersed in a dangerous game
of rehearsed looks gestures
i’d advance he’d go
i’d go he’d return
i’d pretend to go just to see him coming
and he’d come
he’d go
i’d stay
until one friday
he finally left
he’d already tried to leave
on other
fridays
wednesdays

thursdays
saturdays
but he’d end up always returning
i’d tried to leave, too
almost always on mondays
which is the best day of the week
to beg-end something
but i’d end up returning, too
until one friday
he finally left

that day it was blue and hot
when he called at the front gate
i was lying down in the living room reading
elizabeth bishop’s poems about brazil
precisely the final poem
about the art of losing and how easy it is to master
and it was such an obvious way to end things
so cliché
i hadn’t even considered it
he was tired
i was, too
he silenced many things
i did, too
no song would serve as the soundtrack
he tried to say some word
i didn’t let him
he wanted to forgive me / himself
i didn’t look back
afraid to turn into a pillar of salt
and pass through the ages
staring at the shoreline of my front gate
watching a boy in red and gray
crossing the street

afterward
nothing
amniotic days
white on white

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i spent a lot of time like that.

*

o cheiro doce do detergente
e a lembrança (impressa na cozinha)
de um cigarro
descobre sábados no sábado
descobre trilhas de formigas seguidas
pelo facho de sol coado pela lupa
(em) alegrias cheias de vírgula

sábado era a espera
durante a semana
encontros fortuitos
entres as aulas
vez ou outra
voltar juntos
do assis até a casa de dona santinha
eu caminhava lento
para nunca chegar
os olhos sob os óculos
concentrados em mim
não nas
conversa dos meninos
boca das meninas
encarte de cd
jornal revista cifra

(na frente dos garotos
éramos vagamente próximos
você gostava de música
e eu
era quem você conhecia
que mais conhecia de música
ninguém supunha
nós dois
deitados no sofá
ouvindo caetano cantando jokerman
o cheiro da sua boca
só eu sabia
a minha mãe desconfiava
a sua fingia
os garotos não
os garotos eram
lobos bobos
fumando carlton
na quadra
cheirando benzina
no banheiro
eu era todo livros
e canções e filmes e citações
brincando de casinha
longe dos garotos
você era meu amigo)

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sábado não
sábado eu gastava meu dia
inventando o dele
exercícios de caligrafia nas paredes do beco
o traço quebrado em vermelho
corações lanceados
pairando
sobre poças de sangue negro
os últimos pingos suspensos
armando círculos concêntricos
sobre a superfície
e todas as dores do mundo rondando o quarteirão
quando a luz baixava
inaugurava ardências
unhas roídas até o sabugo
oráculos nas placas dos carros
liturgias em torno ao telefone
em dias abafados
em que o suor pressagiava chuva
lançava isca
encontrei a saga da fênix
descobri um poeta foda
guardei um fino pra gente fumar
e ele vinha

pisando macio a superfície do mundo
limpando na camisa o óculos
e rindo amarelo lindo
sentava ao meu lado mudo
e me ouvia sobre tudo solar
como funcionam os prismas de quartzo dos relógios de cristal
as várias vidas de kiki de montparnasse
a teoria das cordas, snuff movie
marlon brandon fazendo marco antonio
sábado e sua carne difícil

(eu tinha medo do silêncio
medo que um espaço em branco entre nós
rebentasse os dentes
fazendo emergir
cardumes
de palavras, expectativas
e fantasias escapistas
que eu mastigava no quarto
sozinho
aos sábados
longe dele)

num sábado de dezembro
o mar invadiu a casa
ainda que não houvesse aquele ridículo ritual
ele saberia
em verdade sempre soube
ou desconfiava
depois
foram tantos sábados, terças, quintas e sextas
mergulhados num jogo perigoso
de olhares gestos ensaiados
eu avançava ele ia
eu ia ele voltava
eu fingia que ia só para ver ele vir
e vinha
ele ia
eu ficava
até que numa sexta-feira
ele finalmente se foi
ele já havia tentado ir
em outras
sextas
quartas

quintas
sábados
mas acabava sempre voltando
eu também já havia tentado ir
quase sempre às segundas
que é o dia melhor da semana
para começacabar algo
mas acabava voltando também
até que numa sexta-feira
ele finalmente se foi

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no dia era azul e quente
quando ele chamou no portão
eu lia deitado na sala
os poemas do brasil de elizabeth bishop
exatamente o poema final
que fala das facilidades da arte de perder
e era um desfecho tão obvio
tão clichê
que nem sequer cogitei
ele estava cansado
eu também
ele calou muitas coisas
eu também
nenhuma canção servia de trilha
tentou falar palavra
não deixei
quis me/se perdoar
não olhei para trás
medo de virar estatua de sal
e percorrer os tempos
fixado a orla do portão
olhando um menino de vermelho e cinza
atravessando a rua

depois
nada
dias amnióticos
branco sobre branco

passei muito tempo assim.

__________________________________

cuier

Excerpted from “Saturday” by Marcio Junqueria, translated by Johnny Lorenz, from Cuíer: Queer Brazil published by Two Lines Press, 2021, as part of the Calico series. Reprinted with permission from the author and translator.




Marcio Junqueira
Marcio Junqueira
Marcio Junqueira (b. 1981) is a poet and visual artist, as well as a professor of literature at the Universidade do Estado da Bahia (UNEB). He is pursuing his doctorate in visual arts at the Universidade Federal da Bahia (URBA), focusing on questions of black masculinity and the homoerotic. His books include Sábado (Riacho, 2019), LUCAS (Sociedade da Presna, 2015), and Voilá mon couer (Edições MAC, 2010). Along with Marcelo Lima and Patricia Martins, he coedited an anthology entitled Antologia Rabiscos, and along with Clarissa Freitas, Luca Matos, and Thiago Gallego, he collaborates on the multimedia project Bliss não tem bis.








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