Marie Kopp

The Graveyard of Snails

Today we visited the graveyard of snails
And I told Adelina, "me parece una poesía muy triste,"
The home of Yayo Pepe—
su chalet tan grande.

We don't have a word like chalet,
I told her when she asked me.

I've never seen roses blossom in Autumn before,
At the end of November like this.
It's very strange to me.

El jardin is overgrown. There are giant urns on their sides in the
grass. I think it's part of the decor but I wasn't sure before, because
it seemed awfully macabre with everything growing and rotting and dying.

In the back is a giant garden where once were fruit trees
But they were all chopped down, and the grapevines are bedraggled,
And the concrete is covered with moss
And thousands and thousands of empty snail shells.
"Porque están aquí?"
"Sí, las caracolas."
"Pero, porque?"
"No lo sé," she tells me, and shrugs.

The shells are even stuck to the shrubs.

"En los Estados Unidos, caracoles viven en la playa."
"No, no están caracoles en la playa."
"¡Sí! ¡Viven en la playa allí!"
"Tenéis playas muy raras," she laughs at me.

There's a swimming pool, mostly empty. I can't tell how deep it is.
There's a pall of algae at the bottom, and white splotches are
growing on the water.

But the water looks clear and inviting. Beware still water, so they say.

Adelina tells me again and again, "me encantaría vivir aquí, en está
gran chalet, con el jardín, la tranquilidad." She looks for me to agree.

But I can't.

There is no love here, no tranquility. Only the ghosts of snails long dead.
Here everything is crumbling, the house where Yayo Pepe lives,
Alone.