FOR EVERY OBJECT
Mindlessly, I started to remove
the few pieces of glass left on the windshield
of that old abandoned car,
with flat tires, the hubcaps missing
and all the door locks busted. I hold them,
invisible to my eyes, and play with them unafraid,
feeling the pointed tips, the sharp edges,
like fragments of language, hiding behind
life, ready to cut. For every object
that goes through my hands I could imagine
a well-intended story. I end up using them,
every single one, like fruit out of season.
Do they always and necessarily cover up
for my will when I start to write a poem?
They actually make me suffer, like an infection,
these little bits of glass that scrape across
the palms of my hands. I should have decided
not to get too close to this beat-up car.
But this small minor discomfort, like a cold
draft coming in the window on a February
morning, also serves to air out the house.
(Poem translated by D. Sam Abrams)
|
