by Yannick Dangre


For years we’ve lived in this marriage,

amid these slamming doors and tenderness

in the evening by the fireside of our thoughts

of wanting to be somewhere else, everywhere

and always someone other than ourselves,

who push each other ever deeper, head in

the sand of years lived too joyfully.


When we meet now we conjure from silence

this house, this furniture, all the silences

with which we have constructed ourselves

in front of the television, in bed and bath

and copulation more and more soundless,

in which we scratched and bit each time

into all that must be bit back:

our skin and our present dates.


And yet, from the sofa again

and again we look back into each other

and see the steadfast weariness

of two veterans, still make on the floor

of our house that has stopped burning

a very little war and peace.

From Girl I Still Like (2011); translated by Paul Vincent