The pink cream in the cookie
Is very embittered.
It shrieks non-stop at me
From the dark hell of the coffee-coloured biscuit,
And even dreams no longer have
The taste of the jam of the stars.
From the kitchen tap
They’ve chewed off my hands.
I sit on the floor and the pot shatters.
Now I keep my eyelids tight shut
So that my sight can quickly come to the boil, and
So that I can see sisters of various heights,
That, like hands of the clock, are fixed
To the dial, their mother.
Happiness is as stubborn as a stone bud
But I cannot worry any more
About those arms of mine –
They were always making hysterical scenes at me.
And like a pill under my tongue I placed a white button
That had broken off my youngest child’s shirt.
Then I felt:
My child’s heart is my walking frame,
When I sometimes forget how to walk,
When nothing can rise up,
And I wish:
Perhaps something may come along
Which will transfer the blood beyond these paths.