HOLY WEEK - Sunday

by Yannick Dangre

HOLY WEEK - Sunday

At last they’re there then, the church bells

and the children who collect their expectations

in a bucket and then look back at me,

the father who has invested himself in them.


I smile at their golden hands, their later

that hangs ever lower in the hedgerows. Nonchalantly

they run after it and as they go eagerly mow

time down at my feet.


I still have to teach them everything: how you eat olives,

Elect a president, use your elbows,

With poignant patience lose a woman.

I still have to knock myself off a pedestal.


But not quite yet. Now I make them grab

for my field of vision, don’t demarcate my

contours. Seize the day and hide it

in the defenceless grass.

From Night and Navel (2017); translated by Paul Vincent