Chloë Honum
Forår
Mor forsøgte at tage sit liv.
Istapperne tøede.
Huset, en våd frakke,
vi ikke kunne tage på igen.
Haven, imidlertid, skyndte sig,
markerne var faste.
Fugle fløj fra skovens
fingerspidser. Mellem blade
og pinde og brunende frugt
sad vi i græsset og
skændtes, bandt tusindfryd, bad.
Alt der falder gribes. Medmindre
det ikke standser, som månelys,
der ingen særlig hastighed har,
falder gennem cedergrenene,
falder gennem stenen.
Spring
Mother tried to take her life.
The icicles thawed.
The house, a wet coat
we couldn't put back on.
Still, the garden quickened,
the fields were firm.
Birds flew from the wood's
fingertips. Among the petals
and sticks and browning fruit,
we sat in the grass and
bickered, chained diaisies, prayed.
All that falls is caught. Unless
it doesn't stop, like moonlight,
which has no pace to speak of,
falling through the cedar limbs,
falling through the rock.
- fra tidsskriftet Poetry, november 2009, købt i St. Marks Bookshop
Ingen kommentarer:
Send en kommentar