Little golden flies above my uncle’s body
Short sharp deaths within four walls, four volleys
from a rifle, yellow bullets and white ones, orange too.
Naturally, made of plastic. Everything’s made of plastic.
And uncle’s only sleeping too, so better go on tiptoes.
And better not be scared, it’s simply sleep apnoea
and Pickwick syndrome. If he wakes up, he’ll have a bite to eat.
These deaths by three quarters, passing through
without an echo, without consequences. These deaths
are not infectious. You can lick yourself clean of them.
You just have to go outside, exit the room
immediately, leave the pellets be, not sniff the flowers.
© translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones