from One Meter Above the Dark

Marie Lundquist

Why are you stumbling over the threshold of poetry? You who have already fallen from the back of your inherited tale. Didn’t I touch your tongue with salted hands? Didn’t I hide your ruptured speech? You could have let the silence garner in your mouth. Envied the quiver of the photographer’s hand: a pulse through the picture’s rasterized heart.



*

Acquire two voices. Both the inside and the outside voice chafed by the play of weather. Have at least one wound to administer, at least one grave to shovel over. Identify yourself with the blind reverence of the snowdrop. Bear all these not-yet-released eggs, these fetal letters that would have brought you back to your origin.



*

Never have I heard love described for what it is; a sawtooth, a torrential downpour that drives us to abandon our dwellings and walk straight toward the gutter, blinded by an artificial promise. A war breaks out, the same age as our embraces. I wake at night with my breasts taut as bowls and recall the image of your lonely face just before everything ascended into a roar of fire.



*

You are washing gravel between your photogenic hands. Everything is about us, even the circular highway around the city appears to constitute a kind of wedding certificate. I take note of the necessity to intellectualize my disappointment. The heart, pounding wildly in the body. We measured our love with a level, didn’t hear the self-destructive fluctuations. I pour salt around your body while you sleep.

translated from the Swedish by Malena Mörling