Your daughter languished, sang,
and ate apples all morning,
hogged the medicine drawer,
invariably sad from toddling.
You ate off hoof-set land and worked
the fields amid mice and roast. Rats
ate the ladders blind, combed over
mangoes. Ask yourself: what else
could live off gangrene fingerprints?
Your partner narrowly skirted
winter, eating frozen tack, hurling
handfuls of sand into the family
saga, carefully scripted
in the noon star’s hymnal.


Homophonic translation of Werner Aspenström’s “Efter En Frostnatt”

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