für die nacht geheuerte zellen für die nacht geheuerte zellen

für die nacht geheuerte zellen

Gedichte
Luchterhand Verlag 2001/2005, 10 €

Bluish Sphinx

translated by Andrew Shields

song in the belly

pain: scraped walls
in the belly
—emptied out, nursed dry,
in every muscle fiber, in every fiber
the child is missing—
in the belly. in effect, laws
of reproduction, they make noise, the
curets, they attach themselves
in the bud, in december
—in the belly. tray tables
snap down, white and planed,
laws of hygiene greedy
the plug sits in the back of the hand
—red
plastic, and drinks. but what's it mean
"cloud")
little root, you.
in the corridor, singing,
scrubbing.
branches scrub the window,
the night. a step this way, to the tub,
to hot water
—in the person.
who cries, finds, in every fiber,
her size (in the eye, in the heart)
alone in the night,
pines
for the little coves, the child.
bent fingers
raised to throat as
if to sing
there, on the wall
(a cloud first) bluish sphinx,
questions—
in every fiber (all
languages—they snap
down, they snap
up)
with the mirror
with the wall scraped clean (branches
at the window) unnursed.
fibers. set for nursing.
yet hungry, yet sticking
out of the hand is the plug,
red, a mouth emptied out
—not to be nursed, in the person.

op

(narcosis)

morphine bees
their yellow-black stripes
a slimy blob
injected into the artery—
a hairy leg already lifts
sinks seeks (so very hairy)
(but without down) a second
(as if pollinated)
that encloses the tailbone
the head shooting out,
morphine bees,
little narcotic sponges
dipping us in.

they rinse you
out of me between
my legs, child, little bloom,
"bare beach", depending,
it comes undone,
in us, where "you", strand
fiber rip, as "purple light",
perhaps, "one day",
sit on a hill,
"in these spheres"
pronounless
a couple, below, on the beach
that conceives you again
while you
roll balls of honey,
or electricity, or thoughts,
in the bee, in the spider,
in the lightless lake.

take

(missed abortion, tissue extracted, 80 g)

exit entrance effort
steady sucking
in of used-up air
effort at first breathe in
out
through swimming
balls through plastic
tube stapled to
arm apparition
trembling that
lies in hand
with cramped fingers
in front of face, half hidden
pupils surrounded by
dark green like lakes cells
signed on for the
night sing after you.
but no god enters
only this electric
shock on the door opened
downward in thigh, drying
nubs, flicker, flicker,
in suction wind
two little arms
on a basin
full of sleep.

(ultrasound checkup,
soon after)

glass rooms are
we. stand in
bath. sparkle
and are. light
splits, the door
swings. splinters
and stands. glass does
what it can. on
screen swims
a memory. only
blind. a raw sack,
the air. layers of skin
on the face. something
trembles and asks.

new and old, known

(the next day)

we still do have the hum of heart
stand in garden, eating cherries,
childlike and glad

we still do have the hum of heart
blackbirds in grass, stroke
hands      light playing

the final sum is waiting, silent,
is stroking us—and has it
still, the hum of heart, in us
and chews the cherry, silent.

(in the seventh night)

in dream the hills go
away from me. they are
my breasts. in dream
I lose what I value
slips from my grasp
the candle, the pink stocking,
key and shoe. I become
mushroom hunter. I go
into the field, with a basket. before me
a black dog burrows. secretly
bent over the edge
of a hill, I see him, he digs
up truffles, the terrain is dark
and raw. the loose mesh of my
red sweater hangs over my
belly. a warm hand covers
my ear. my body comes
back to me. zippers
on me snap open and shut.

(in the eighth night, dream)

saw her push
a tampon in
a small white figure
packed tight as if to parachute—a photo of a child
appeared—little girl as fly agaric—someone turned
the knob—pulsing pointer on shining
frequency scale—brain rhythm of a gnat in
flight over dragonfly pond.

the smooth. the notched.
the gleaming, inside, in her.
plug zipper. bleeding after missed
abortion. on the scale the pointer
phosphoresces in ultrasound
white: follow me
follow me. white as a tooth
you lie in my belly

and sleep.

(in the morning)

... and something soft.
with the black berry
in its mouth. wanted
to not see the world
its suffered
its painings.
but to be gentle
(burning trees, child: some-
thing sweet, lady-
bugs, in them)

to you, with the black berry
in your mouth

i ask you who we are

(leaving the hospital)

child:
bright orange the plastic
ambulance, chopped
up wood, the television tower
flashed day and night. breakfast in
bed. the bricks shone red,
acanthus leaves, of stone.
an embryo cloud drifted past
(the head clear, the tail,
your heart). silvery
soft hail
freezes/melts
in gravel.

it is brown gray green and
white / water of life it
frozen
melted
right
away

snow
and it shines
like scabs

you

(three months later)

can you see the clouds up high, above the blackbird, the
suckling sun, on it? hear the tufts of trees, the mistletoe twigs,
see the nests in empty branches? all around, time goes. here
and there it snows us. onto the earth, as small soul, in the skirt
of body, and glad. between the leaves, see,
it hops in snow, blinks at you. a cyberjewel, on
the blackbird's feathers. crystal, lighter than snow.
the sun licks it. it hums. it buzzes. it is
fiberglass, like underground, red, like in a wall,
mother, in you. how you sit there and think: you.
turn around, turn away, look, for the branch. it pokes
you in the hip, under your jeans. song buzzing there. i
am so light, as a little one, gone away, from you.

you bought it. two goldfish swim in it. green
the algae's arms wave behind. always in the same direction,
the fish swim in glass, circle. their black eyes
are like the moon. it too has a side that's invisible. the
glass stands in your belly. you see with the vein between hip
and pubis. i snow as winter into the room. you smile.
the moon, unutterable, in the room, too. little orange stars
the fish swim around us.