by Yannick Dangre


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