Lo que cuenta / What Counts

what counts is to be standing there,
at the edge of the grandstands.
the dogs in front of you growling.
dogs trained in the art of killing.
welterweight dogs over thirty pounds.
(I liked being there). the people that come
to this sort of place are always interesting.
desperate people with lifeless faces.
people who come for love: love of shoes,
love of clothing, love of disaster;
and disaster in all its power started
to intrigue me.

the dogs were, in essence, beautiful
more beautiful than my parents,
more beautiful than God. they had red tongues
and this masculine way of slobbering.
I felt like my life was wrapped up in that slobber,
in that filthy way of looking.
so I took out two hundred bucks
and I put them on some no-name dog, a dog that had never
fought once and was pitted against another
that had won sixteen times.
a dog undefeated and secular, like a government.
they started killing each other,
their mouths making bloodshed.
flashes of hard pleasure.
dogs who fought for the possible
and the impossible of men.
I looked towards the stands and saw savage faces
of lonely people, happy.
people betting on a lifeless whelp.
after a few minutes,
the dog I bet on won.
standing over the other he howled, over and over again.
they carried him off like a hero and we joined the mob
heading home. we walked in silence.
listening to how they laugh, how they talk—
those who win.
that night, I learned what it is to be a loser.
I saw the beaten dog in a bag
by the side of the road.
what did it matter if he’d won sixteen times.
glory never lasts in this sort of place.
and that’s what counts.
it isn’t so bad, being short on love or short on life.
what counts is knowing you made your bet.
that you came out here, just like them,
that you came with the mob to cut your teeth
on love’s old meat.

//

lo que cuenta es estar parado ahí,
en el borde de las gradas.
los perros frente a ti ladrando.
perros entrenados en el arte de matar.
perros welters con más de treinta libras.
(me gustaba estar ahí). la gente que viene
a estos lugares resulta interesante.
gente desahuciada con un rostro sin vida.
gente que viene por amor: amor a los zapatos,
amor a la ropa, amor al desastre;
y el desastre con su fuerza comenzaba
a interesarme.

los perros en su esencia eran bellos
más bellos que mis padres,
más bellos que Dios. tenían rojas lenguas
y una forma masculina de babear.
sentí que mi vida estaba ligada a aquella baba,
a aquella forma envilecida de mirarse.
entonces saqué doscientos pesos
y se los puse al perro-nadie, un perro que nunca
había peleado y que lo haría contra uno
que sumaba dieciséis.
un perro invicto y secular como un gobierno.
comenzaron a matarse,
las bocas producían hechos de sangre.
instantes de duro placer.
perros que peleaban por lo possible
y lo imposible del hombre.
miraba las gradas y veía rostros brutales
de gente enajenada, feliz.
gente apostando a un cachorro sin vida.
al cabo de varios minutos
el perro al que había apostado ganó.
subido encima del otro ladraba una y otra vez.
lo cargaron como a un héroe y volvimos
en turba hacia la casa. íbamos callados.
escuchando cómo ríen, como hablan
los que ganan.
esa tarde supe lo que era un perdedor.
vi al perro derrotado en una jaba
sobre el borde del camino.
qué importa que hubiera ganado dieciséis.
la gloria en estos sitios dura poco.
y eso es lo que cuenta.
poco amor o poca vida no es tan malo.
lo que cuenta es saber que has apostado.
que has venido como ellos hasta aquí,
que has venido en la turba a darle diente
a la carne envejecida del amor