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