No. 6


Gerrit Achterberg 
Translated from the Dutch by Antoinette Fawcett 


My hand strokes over your door.
It’s true, I think,
that as before
panel and plinth will grow.
I go inside and am no more
than heartbeat and sinew.


My body is my double love.
It was your trusted confidant
in things that do not have a name,
they’re so tucked up and deep;
and now I notice them like this —
caresses built into the flesh,
which never stop.
My body is my double love.


Angel of aluminium,
in my heart you’re ringing;
into metal shrinking,
and thin jubilation,
through your concentration.
Fetish-doll and mascot
on my deathwards voyage.


This universe flayed from your skin
will only tension up again,
if I fill it with your case:
I put my lips on the wounded place:
rubber and mouth grow into one;
everything, by which you had consistence,
raves through my voice in its existence.


The snow descends into your skull,
ages since a flooded dale.
Everything that I could think
inside the cortex of your brain,
that labyrinth of bliss,
gathered into a faraway blip,
which straight-on-target pushed itself
through every bowed-down plain.


This is the winter, death-still, each in each.
We have no beginning.  We are myth
paired up together, village and pond. 
Archetype and origin.  A Segers etching.

And roadways knobble to knots of hair.
The day is shut.  On stiff and heavy doors
heavens hang locked up.  This is where 
iron welds itself to iron, a loving pair.




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everything published 
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with the authors.


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