Monika Rinck
translated from the German by Rosmarie Waldrop
last day in the south
we’ll give you an injection
fixed on this bench in our vacation home
look how your forehead’s gleaming
o — how radiant your temples’
reflection in the lampshade’s quiet white
how beautiful you are, how good and
unexpected the light
through your veins runs a shimmer
and in the dark chamber nests
radium — your small green fear.
everywhere, with all others, visions crop up
but not with you. with you everything is
clear and in sharp focus, labels, cactuses.
everything’s here in last night’s broken glass
figurines of desire, delicate froth
here the good lord’s own tongue
has untied yours, you speak, and how beautifully,
of pharmakon, of waving plantains
and at the door already
the shoes we've brought
the garbage bags and the passat.
––––––––
passat: name of a german car and also the German term for the trade winds
not having: sex
there you stand, a jump-ball fortress, so stupid,
arms toward him in the gothic manner, head
crisscrossed by holiday pageants
with historic costumes and jingling horses
you simply are and will remain a hick
he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want you,
now you fall, fall later, the earth
meeting your fall is soft
but useless, now you leave, now he leaves.
the end. formless. wrong season.
a rest stop in caved-in terrain.
my winter with persons singular
a white renault a park frozen stiff
bare every tree — cupped by a belljar sheared off at the top
that is the city, that’s the people in their houses.
a glance drags us out into the chalkwhite light
above the plants between the papal branches
a windowless sky blinks negative positive
simple forms are changing: into abstract camouflage.
we then — in hats, scarfs and flimsy shoes sped
into this reduction of a park
where everything was there in just one single sample
nor did my eyes add anything
while the sky above posed as a tundra.
we putter along the inner belljar rim,
you my silhouette, a pond with hooks
and me an empty hobbypad, your only hand.
all kinds of thoughts were there in just one single sample
and even that slid off in all directions
the thought trajectory took hours
until much later, stopped by belljars with open tops
our discernment vanished into a void set to separate us
pond
says he: grief is a pond.
say I: yes, grief is a pond.
because grief lies in a hollow
shot through with fish and smells rotten.
says he: and guilt is a pond.
say I: yes, guilt’s also a pond.
because guilt spills over the hollows
and, with my arms lifted high, already
reaches to my open armpit.
says he: the lie is a pond.
say I: yes, the lie’s likewise a pond.
because in a summer night
you can picnic on the banks of the lie
and always leave something there.
isolatable substances
don’t address this word
to me, please don’t say
“the night.”
say instead: “beloved,”
and I’ll polymerize
my soul into yours
and can still fall silent.
your smile’s low frequency
vibrates against my body boundaries
and sends me out into the street, alone
on my way home, by the park edge
I ride along the dewy darkness
through air that is your breath.
humid, molecular.
translated from the German by Rosmarie Waldrop
last day in the south
we’ll give you an injection
fixed on this bench in our vacation home
look how your forehead’s gleaming
o — how radiant your temples’
reflection in the lampshade’s quiet white
how beautiful you are, how good and
unexpected the light
through your veins runs a shimmer
and in the dark chamber nests
radium — your small green fear.
everywhere, with all others, visions crop up
but not with you. with you everything is
clear and in sharp focus, labels, cactuses.
everything’s here in last night’s broken glass
figurines of desire, delicate froth
here the good lord’s own tongue
has untied yours, you speak, and how beautifully,
of pharmakon, of waving plantains
and at the door already
the shoes we've brought
the garbage bags and the passat.
––––––––
passat: name of a german car and also the German term for the trade winds
not having: sex
there you stand, a jump-ball fortress, so stupid,
arms toward him in the gothic manner, head
crisscrossed by holiday pageants
with historic costumes and jingling horses
you simply are and will remain a hick
he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want you,
now you fall, fall later, the earth
meeting your fall is soft
but useless, now you leave, now he leaves.
the end. formless. wrong season.
a rest stop in caved-in terrain.
my winter with persons singular
a white renault a park frozen stiff
bare every tree — cupped by a belljar sheared off at the top
that is the city, that’s the people in their houses.
a glance drags us out into the chalkwhite light
above the plants between the papal branches
a windowless sky blinks negative positive
simple forms are changing: into abstract camouflage.
we then — in hats, scarfs and flimsy shoes sped
into this reduction of a park
where everything was there in just one single sample
nor did my eyes add anything
while the sky above posed as a tundra.
we putter along the inner belljar rim,
you my silhouette, a pond with hooks
and me an empty hobbypad, your only hand.
all kinds of thoughts were there in just one single sample
and even that slid off in all directions
the thought trajectory took hours
until much later, stopped by belljars with open tops
our discernment vanished into a void set to separate us
pond
says he: grief is a pond.
say I: yes, grief is a pond.
because grief lies in a hollow
shot through with fish and smells rotten.
says he: and guilt is a pond.
say I: yes, guilt’s also a pond.
because guilt spills over the hollows
and, with my arms lifted high, already
reaches to my open armpit.
says he: the lie is a pond.
say I: yes, the lie’s likewise a pond.
because in a summer night
you can picnic on the banks of the lie
and always leave something there.
isolatable substances
don’t address this word
to me, please don’t say
“the night.”
say instead: “beloved,”
and I’ll polymerize
my soul into yours
and can still fall silent.
your smile’s low frequency
vibrates against my body boundaries
and sends me out into the street, alone
on my way home, by the park edge
I ride along the dewy darkness
through air that is your breath.
humid, molecular.