In the evenings, after all the work and loving
of other people’s houses, we come home in
each other again, walking on tiptoe
in each other’s voices, both more deaf and
more afraid of being spoken.
Entrenched in our kitchens and armchairs
and unfinished recipes for lovers,
we await the hour, our stroke of the bell
when with frayed gestures we invite
each other to table, are silent and go on
eating what is suppressed.
Thus supper dies each day
our silent death and we gradually
become this table, the wooden
cups of happiness, blind to our
splinters and stains, since for ages we have not
covered each other.
From Girl I Still Like (2011); translated by Paul Vincent