THE NON-EXISTENCE OF DAYS
More delicate than the historians'
are the map-makers'
colors
Elizabeth Bishop
The denial of the world is having entered
these pitiful times with a heavy heart.
They smell sour and moldy like dirty clothes
that have waited to long in the hamper.
I also smell the odor of sweaty feet.
We haven't adjusted the air flow and it's
hard for us to breathe properly. I wouldn't
insist on making these remarks if I hadn't
seen a piece of baseboard missing from the wall,
uncovering the old bare bricks behind it.
It's the simple presence of life shielding
itself with decay as if it enjoyed digging
into the shabbiest areas of indolence.
I also amuse my sullen self observing
the most unnoticed territories, searching
through the foggiest landscapes of ashes.
Now the only thing left to do is to wish
for your fingers to remove my clothes,
to allow myself to be fully touched
by the icy contact of a damaged thing,
shrugging my shoulders, bearing the pain
with my knees pressed against the cold.
I grit my teeth hard also, to avoid the dulling
effect produced by the feeling of defeat.
And I let myself run my fingers over
the rough edges of a child's drawing
sketched on the wall, with the required calm.
(Poem translated by D. Sam Abrams)
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