Translated by Kira Josefsson
Snow Lessons
There are many types of ice: white ice, red ice, slick black ice. If only you’d learned to master the ice. If only you’d learned more about the work of translation. If only your parents had brought you out on the frozen lake in winter and taught you to watch out, little snail, watch out. If you hadn’t spun your hair so tightly around your middle finger in a custom-made fuck you. If you’d accepted the premise of the conversation. If you’d accepted the premise of social convention. If you’d learned to be happy in the midst of this unhappiness. If the very basis for that unhappiness could make you happy. If you’d realized that unhappiness is a word ill-suited to the context as it conceals the material basis of exploitation. If you’d spent more time thinking about care.
There are many types of ice: blue ice, green ice, purple ice. Once an after has been introduced there’s not much more you can do about it. For example: after winter. For example: after industrialization. At this point before has turned into a different, unknown country. For example: before winter. For example: before fleeing one’s home.
If you’d rinsed the chlorine out properly. If you’d curled up at your mother’s feet and let her comb your tangled hair. If you’d had a different attitude to home. If you didn’t have a tendency to go cross-eyed. If it were only about the eyes. If you’d been better at balancing and worse at doubting. If you’d rested when you slept. If you weren’t a fissure through which they can glimpse another layer of time. If someone, at some point, hadn’t traveled along a road. If the mountain hadn’t made part of your spine. If you could write without betraying everyone you love. If you could live without betraying everyone you love. If you could live. If you could dance over the ice with scalpels attached to your feet.
There are many types of ice: smooth ice, rough ice, sharp ice. One time you plucked icicles like cold fruits and pressed them against your mouth and tongue, one by one. When ice turns into water, the murkier aspects of translation become transparent again.
If only you could get an overview of the situation. If it could be simply summarized. If you could split yourself into your constituent parts. If you could stand without moving at all while the streetlights came on, followed by nightfall. If you could hide your dark continent. If that, despite everything, might have an effect beyond the individual. If anything you’re doing or will do could go beyond the individual. If at least you had some respect for the ideals of the Enlightenment. If you didn’t pretend to be so lonely. If you didn’t pretend to be so red so blue such purple ice. If you hadn’t taken her hand one summer and laid down beneath the willow tree.
“Black and witty” II
We’re here / And also here / Golden brocade / Grass stains / We’re
drawn to rivers / We’re drawn to asphalt / We’re drawn to girls /
To girls of grass / Wonderful feeling / Plenty of sunshine / Headin’
my way / Likely multiple / Off-key voices / Among birch and linden
/ In other landscapes / In other countries / Overlaying / Archaic
expressions / Unfettered longing / A cotton shawl / A cotton dress
/ Kicking air / Striking space / This is us / These are our voices /
Outside the cool shade of the eucalyptus tree / When the sun re-
turns after rain / We say the hyena is giving birth / We say it in /
Off-key voices / Gum and cigarettes after school / Children in us
/ Blackly minded / Glowing summer nights / Feet in the pool / An
hour past closing
