i There is no possible house any longer. If there ever was a first one mentioned, she is now in ruins and does not await returns, or transient guests still confused who arrive weary to scrutinize the dust and to keep her from ending in a nagging, dense, uninhabitable fog. Once believed to be a centerpiece, a stove, a swarming of voices and footsteps against time and History, the house grew tired of waiting and now is nobody, nothing, not a shadow of what she was or could have been. Banished, annoyed, noncomplying, one by one we abandoned her without shame or roof to seek, in the longest wandering which has yet to end, even if our life allotments were already running out. ii Today, indifferent to noise, covered in each branch and column, filled with light, and safeguarded from all zigzagging, in another language, this house (“sweet home”) in which I live could replace – according to many – the one finally defeated by time and History, and could even resemble the one in dreams, for she nobly embraces me, opens her drapes to the sun and to my habits, invites my friends and tells me confidently: “This is your house.” “Yes, the fruit – I reply to her – of what was not.” And although I understand that the home we used to dream of is no more than the actual place where I live, I know now that, in reality, – the centerpiece broken and scattered – nobody, not even this house, today, awaits me. iii I saw her this way in a dream for the first time in years, inviting me to her smallest corners, protecting me from cold and habits of others, letting me be as I wish within her four walls – a gentle shield against all rain or snowfall. Sure of herself, night after night, that house, strange but habitable, returns and gifts me a novel reason, or draws a thread, a pin crouched in my memory. In every dream I see her drifting attentively through every nook and cranny, clinging victoriously to a corner, to a pillow, to a warmth already known to be necessary. And in her serene and faithful shadow I see myself gradually inhabiting her, near and far from everything, she and I alone, as one, like travelers, accomplices in another late decision: that house in the dream is the actual house in which I live. Translation from the Spanish By José Bañuelos-Montes & the author Jesús J. Barquet (b. 1953, Havana) has published nine books of poetry: from Sin decir el mar (1981) to Los viajes venturosos /Venturous Journeys (2015). He is an award-winning literary critic and anthologist whose most recent work is Todo parecía: poesía cubana contemporánea de temas gays y lésbicos (2015). He has lived in the United States since 1980. José Bañuelos-Montes is an associate professor of Spanish at Roanoke College. He has translated Jesús J. Barquet’s El libro del desterrado (momentos robados: 1983–1991) / The Emigrant’s Logbook (Stolen Moments: 1983–1991) and is currently translating the Brazilian poet Narlan Matos. Houses by Jesús J. Barquet WORLDLIT.ORG 47 ...