Alphecca
Gael P. Rossi // AR
This poem was written from my relationship with Alphecca, the central star of the constellation Corona Borealis, seen in a singular way from my South American latitude, and present in my chart as my heliacal rising star—that is, the star that rises with the Sun at dawn on the day of my birth. For years I have returned to it as one returns to an inherited jewel: something small in appearance, yet charged with fate. Alphecca means “the brightest of the dish.” This refers to the work of fishers who find a pearl after gathering oysters, and in the Western tradition, to a crown of flowers, a common feature of ancient Greek weddings, and for the myth of this star, it's representing the union of a mortal and a god, of what is earthly and what is immortal. It is one of the few stars in the sky linked to a gem, a precious ornament, an object made to be worn on the body.
Poetry bears a kinship to goldsmithing. The artifact that is made needs skin, neck, hands, movement. Like a jewel, a poem fully exists when it passes through breath, mouth, chest, the tremor of a voice. In the esoteric tradition, this star speaks of honors, art, music, a talent offered before others, and also the thorns that attend every act of offering. For this reason, the work is accompanied by the traditional sigil of talismanic magic that invokes Alphecca: our own magical labor of conjuring words, the craft, the embroidery, the sewing, the spell.
empecé a bordar en mi buzo favorito
la llave de tres puntas
que me enseñó Oscar,
mi astrólogo medieval,
uso una aguja grande
y un hilo azul, y surzo en cada manga
el glifo de mi estrella
dice: honores, poesía,
dolor y alegría;
las letras encriptadas en hilos azules
dibujan flores y laureles en cada uno de mis brazos
de todos los amuletos que hice
este es el más fuerte porque es el más hermoso,
asi como la comida hecha con amor es más rica
a este amuleto le puse
los callos y la sangre de mis dedos,
tres noches en vela, un libro de una poeta escorpiana
que se llama Mercurio, y tiene por tapa un espejo.
Eso es lo que tengo que hacer con el dolor
para que este cuerpo y este poema
se conviertan en un lago
para cuando tengas sed
para cuando estes sucia, cansada y cagada de calor
al final de este poema está ese lago
y ahora este verso destruye tu soledad
y cada vez que lo leas
tu corazón se hace tibio y se pone contento
y cada vez que lo digas en voz alta
te nombra con el nombre de lo que es querido
I began to embroider on my favorite hoodie
the three pronged key
that Oscar taught me
(my medieval astrologer)
I use a big needle
and a blue thread
and I stitch on each sleeve
the glyph of my star.
It says: honors, poetry,
pain and joy.
The letters encrypted in blue threads
draw flowers and laurels
on each of my arms.
Out of all the amulets I've made
this one is the strongest
because it is the most beautiful.
Just as food made with love tastes better.
Into this amulet I put:
the calluses and the blood of my fingers;
3 (three!) sleepless nights,
a book by a poet born under Scorpio
titled Mercury
with a mirror on the cover.
That is what I have to do with pain
so that this body and this poem
become a lake.
For when you are thirsty.
For when you are sunburnt, dirty, tired.
At the end of this poem
you will find the lake is there.
And now this line
destroys your loneliness.
And every time you read it
your heart grows warm
and turns happy.
And every time you say it out loud
it names you
with the name of what is loved.