'This is how' quartet by the Danish poet Katrine Marie Guldager

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

untamed chaos

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

cold.

The air stood still.

I sat down in front of the fire and threw a stick on the fire

that was now burning.

I thought:

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,

my mother.

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.