In a dream: shattered against the concrete
foot of a bridge, chopped up by the body of a car
on a wheel-ploughed strip of greenery.
I’m dying, I’m rotting and breeding maggots.
I’m feeding the earth, which was meant to ease the heart.
That’s yesterday. Now the moon is like a blister,
my wife is clipping our sleeping daughter’s nails.
I mustn’t be distracted – concentrating,
I slide a mouse trap under the dresser.
As gently as I possibly can,
so that it won’t fire off empty.
© translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones (courtesy of Wisława Szymborska Foundation)