Reading from Southbank Centre's Poetry Parnassus festival, 2012. Reading in Spanish, translation below.
Niko, you will never know about the night
until they said Kid Wilson’s wrestle will not be broadcasted tonight,
and your father doesn’t know what to do with all that frozen beer,
and it is then that everything goes dark;
and it is then when the silence gets inside and right behind you,
it is then when you think of fear
as a strange man who sits down in your bed.
And you, Niko, thinking about this curious sunrise
with the memories of Kid Wilson in his bath robe,
dancing his feet
as his fists cut the air with hard air strikes.
You, imagining the celebration of a knock out, Niko
letting yourself be embraced by your father
as a good friend who celebrates another thing,
who celebrates the most beautiful, great and cutest thing;
and at the same time you know you are Kid Wilson,
he is your father at your birth date,
and you cry,
you cry as the day you were born,
because you don’t know who Kid Wilson is,
nor his father,
or his mother’s mother,
but you hold on, Niko
because it is the only way to avoid
carrying the weight of the night.