this is how i
This is how I bend over a child’s cradle
and all those
who bent over mine
are already gone.
This is how I stand under the tree top’s
and call it a life, a direction:
The sun lights up an apple.
As if enduring was some sort of cure.
As if that was some sort of cure.
There is only one poem to arrive at:
An empty landscape.
A dripping tap.
The rustling of the leaves outside.
Those then were the people
we chose to be.
this is how ii
This is how it looked
when I returned:
The blue china cup stood exactly on the same spot
the chair half pushed away from the table.
But the fire had gone out and the coffee grown
The air stood still.
I sat down in front of the fire and threw a stick on the fire
that was now burning.
I’m older now, certainly wiser.
this is how iii
This is how I shall give birth to a child
a split apple.
Half you, half me and yet something
completely different even so:
Blood, moondust, bird’s feet.
This is how I shall let go
of all that
which imperceptibly, most kindly omits:
To collect itself together again.
this is how iv
This is how I shall become reconciled to wrinkles
forgetfulness and blurred vision.
This is how I shall become reconciled to my children, my husband,
I shall be reconciled to injustice,
to the fact
that you wished me ill
to crushed dreams, I shall become reconciled to the fact:
That I shall not become reconciled.
That I was not in love with the words.
That I went down the filthy dirty staircase of prose.
And first found you there.