Psalm 22
When I open the door of the refrigerator
the mould on the milk is half an inch thick.
The bread is green and almost translucent.
I close the door and, eyes closed, lean
against the radiator.
I am so dreadfully.
I am so terribly.
I loved him.
When he left, something was torn.
I still cannot stand the smell of coconut
the way his hair smelt, melting in my bed
the little black curls and the stains.
I left, destination unknown,
until I also forgot my own name.
And now.
I open the door of the language
and see the rust of unused words.
How do I reopen my book with fire?
When he left, something was torn.
I looked at my hands in the washing-up water
and saw the shards that were not there,
the soap bubbles that slowly came up and floated away,
the single empty glass.
Years later he sends me an email:
“Today someone wore your perfume,
I smelt it at the university library
and for a full hour looked for you, while knowing
you to be eight flight hours away.”
But the language that I am does not allow me
to describe my tears as soaking wet.
How on earth do you want me to cope, beloved?
When I said I loved it was you
who was inside me. There is no other,
you are the only one. That speaks for itself. You speak. You speak in me
and you say I and I means earth.
When he left something was torn.
From what was torn it started
to bleed until it had wings
and with the quills described the way
from the depths, de profundis, to the light.
