× × ×
I didn’t say what I expected to: what I’d lifted
the receiver for. I just laughed. between one cold
finger and the next — between thumb and index
— I twisted the glass stem. looked at my feet
dipped into water. a green reflection: an excessive
movement: towel. room. lamp. darkness.
in two countries live a silent and a screaming
reality: right and left profiles of banality. and
between them a face that belongs to no one.
emails and letters are written without flourish.
the radio is switched on, by turns silently and
loud. I disconnect the phone. the noise does not
subside: more and more windows light up in the
× × ×
a/ with the same pen, with the same blue colour:
I even recognise the writing. the slowness of the
typewriter, in extending the leg, in the slope of
the instep, in the quality of silence. the sound of
a carefully turned page: paper snagged on the
edge of the sleeve.
b/ I can’t explore other people’s balconies
endlessly. to compare blue with grey and to
squander each new sleep in a disquieting
investigation, wanting to know if the distant
foot of the hill has vanished too. if I am deeper
and deeper within.
c/ to put in the envelope, after signing. to clean
the shoe first on the kerb, then on the lawn.
to check the nameplate on the door. to lock it.
possibly to air the room again.
× × ×
if they tell you: she left tragically,
you picture at least a dull explosion, scattered
inanimate parts of furniture, smudged pavements,
or at least shreds of a weathered cardboard box
stuck on the windscreen,
if they tell you: fish were the first to stop looking,
you don’t know what to imagine,
they have no idea what to tell you,
they have no idea what effect it can have on you
× × ×
shake me. pass through me.
on the bark, on the light. turn me over on my
stomach. still walking. insert me between two
sides. sew me up.
drink me down with water. make me cosy.
vertical. pre-prepare. jump over in the reflection.
tell anyone about me. disperse. set words on
me, silence me. soothe me. draw me in the
waiting room. make good use of what you’ve
speech slips out from behind both of us. I am
pasting you in. … to follow the linear story of
the lived first at the place where it passively
succumbs: country after cataclysm, volcano…
© Mária Ferenčuhová, translated by Marián Andričík