In Front of an Old X-Ray
for Aris Fioretos
The bodies are gone. A posthumous tidiness reigns
In the empty flat, spring-cleaned from the mirrors
To the stains in the bath. At the bottom of the tub
Curls one single hair, last surviving trace of a species
That cleans up after itself and washes after mating.
How peaceful are the windowsills with their dead flies –
But even here terror likes to call.
It insinuates itself into crevices, thresholds and radiator ribs,
A hatchery for insect eggs, an odorless incense
Wafting through the room, blackening the stove rings,
Luke-warm at floor level, cooling in the curtain pleats.
Scales of skin it is, sweepings from a reptile cage
That show who sleeps here. To go by the kitchen calendar
Hanging over the sink, some Monday or other
Has come and gone.
There is builders’ rubble under the floorboards, and nothing human
About the furniture, save the tenacity with which it was assembled,
The skeletal table, the clutch of ossified chairs,
So long unwarmed by either hand or behind.
The illusion of mod cons is dried up in the sink,
Contorted in the windings of taps. Comfort
Summons a lurking house-ghost out of the corners,
Where at other times the hoover revelled
In bestial squalor.
After an interval of days, in some cases weeks, the inhabitant
Returns here, to his own surprise. His glance falls – along with
His key-ring – to the indifferent floor, before catching itself
On the resolute walls. He stands there fascinated,
As much a stranger to himself as he would be
Before the grouted frigidarium of Pompeii, or the scribbled walls
Of the House of Charred Furniture, the dark
And juiceless obscenities.
The shades have fled. Printed on the stone
Is the narrow edge of sweat that a Roman woman’s foot
Left one July noon. No one could identify
The interconnecting chambers, once they’re vacated.
All trace of pink has gone from the assembled emptiness,
Though the rust of the pipes keeps its freshness longer
Than the fishes’ blood in the kitchen,
The ocular gleam of clean plates.
Life burgeons in dustbins. Only sometimes a fingernail breaks
While rummaging through the plastic bags. A false movement
Drills a splinter into the flesh. A desk drawer jams
Because, with the insistence of an object in a dream,
An infant photograph of yourself keeps sticking.
Plants, desiccated in a cupboard, deny the peaceably
Ticking grandfather clock. From everywhere comes the derisive:
‘You see what comes of...’
For instance, the towel dangling stiffly on its hook,
Or the pair of shoes, parked by the door,
That got you this far. Or again, the toothbrush,
Grey with use, a living relic, spied through a keyhole,
An archive of tiny deaths that might be broken up at any time.
Till something turns up that no one missed – an X-ray
In amongst the yellow bills in a medical file,
A negative showing your own skull,
With the break in the bone.
The souvenir of an accident – radiation
Has stripped away all the flesh. A white pall
Lies on the film, an angel’s cigarette smoke swirls
Round the empty eye-sockets. A triangle gapes
In lieu of a nose. Space is inhaled
Through the dark oral cavity. And that calcium-rich grin
Is both your ur-face and your last, even though
Nothing looks back at you.
The eyes, skin and hair are all abolished,
Cancelled along with the eyelashes and the dutiful eyelids,
As are the tears – lifeblood of fiction – in their ducts and glands,
And every wrinkle. The lips are gone
You used to gnaw. And swallowed up the tongue
Behind the teeth. But all through the ensuing years
(Or weeks), the bent nail stays in the plaster
Where the hammer drove it. The damp patch on the ceiling
shines dully through the paint. Blue as on the first day,
The vase, resting place of so many violets, stands in the window,
A small coin of soap lies pristine in its dish. All signs of use
On knives and bottlenecks were a false lead
In this abandoned flat. Against bare walls,
Flickering in the X-ray illumination, nothing was left
To recall the poise of bodies, vanished
In the come and go.
Vasko Popa (1922-1991; trans. unknown)
Before The Game
Shut one eye then the other
Peek into every corner of yourself
See that there are no nails no thieves
See that there are no cuckoo's eggs
Shut then the other eye
Squat and jump
Jump high high high
On top of yourself
Fall then with all your weight
Fall for days on end deep deep deep
To the bottom of your abyss
Who doesn't break into pieces
Who remains whole gets up whole
Plays
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