N a d j a K ü c h e n m e i s t e r —

translated by A i m e e C h o r

in the glass mountain

the sun is the moon

my eye a star among stars

my suitcase a stool

my key a ring

i am without fear

seven days brothers

wind from the east

glass mountain bird

has forgotten its song

moon and sunlight

i remember

mushrooms lift their heads

moths are extinguished

when the moon slides in front of the sun

i will keep watch

no more shadows in the shade

the sun takes me away

the moon catches the scent

the key of the stars

run up the glass mountain

i am encircled

plate of bread cup of wine

my ring my key

the moon is the sun

black bird stand by me

walk through the district

and if someone said, years later, on this morning

something took place on my walk through the district

i would have to object, nothing happened

damp air in my hood, cool on my cheeks

and one hand in the pocket of my parka

tried somehow to hold itself

but could not, shoes stepped into my shadow

i did not arrive there at all, although i

was not alone, i was alone on my walk

houses stretched into a fresh light

strewn here and there like salt in the damp

of a monday morning, nothing held

my eye, as though things themselves rejected me

that's fine, i thought, if nothing wants me, neither will

i want anything more on my walk through the district

just end it with each step, so conscious of

my heartbeat, the breath in my bronchi, somewhat short

the blood in my veins and arteries, a strong current.

the horse’s step

we drove to the woods

in the horse’s step one sensed

a slow pulling away, there was

hardly any light left in the footwell

of your car something brushed

my heel, not yours, we read

the paper from front to back

the business section most of all

the want ads, occasionally

we laughed, each touched the belly

button of the other, lay in the grass

called each other on the phone, eye to eye

the sun is darkening at its periphery.

vlahia

the hotel entry collects the light

of an early afternoon

your winging step

that leads us, more than seven times

from deep danger, the pulse

at the wrist, barely palpable

the door opens, down flies

out at us, pillows, sheets

the carpet swallows

what we say, want to say

the glass in the window frame

vibrates down below a car

drags by, wearily searching

we sleep, wake, sleep

again, late in the evening

a pack of dogs in the streets

we lie in each other’s arms, suitcase

and air conditioner, speak quietly.

it begins where it ends

it always begins here, at the new year, in the warm air

it begins with a breath, and so it ends

it begins with a hand that grows around a key

it begins with a key and it ends with no door.

it begins where it ends, it begins at the entrance, at a

crowded crossing you take the first exit right

although you know no crossing and no exit

do not know all things end and do not begin again.

at the entrance, where all flights end, you go to yourself

where the day warms you, where the night cools you

your hand a key, your eye a sea, here

you stay till you go again and it ends with no door.

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