My navel
Louise Rosengreen
Translated by: Heather Spears
I.
Just as I’m waking up
a president lands somewhere
steps across the
white stripes on the tarmac
is greeted by a
little girl with flowers
Flower arrangement
is a delicate craft
it requires an eye
for contrast
The little girl has
a future
They shake hands on
that
Just as I rub sleep
deeper into the corners of my eyes
the president’s
mouth has become a magic trick
an egg pops out of
his mouth
another egg pops
out of his mouth
another egg pops
out of his mouth
Parents worry
whether their
children are beautiful enough for their environment
Babies are still
born with cleft lips
Babies are still
born with labia
Test-tube babies
are still delivered by C-section
Babies are still
born in taxis at The Triangle
The fine is 500
crowns
The driver uses a
cloth to wipe up the waters
If a newborn
sneezes
I am reminded
that I am alive
until I am not
Everybody worry about dying! – that’s an order
II.
All
comparisons are unfair
The sun is not a bike light
Spring sleet is not an ice age
Even so comparisons are the keys to understanding
and locksmiths are indispensable
in a forgetful society
It costs 500 crowns for 24 hour service
if you slam yourself out during the day
At night, it costs double
Once you could leave doors and bicycles unlocked when you went out
That
was indeed once
A locksmith’s tool of choice is a snap gun
A goldsmith’s choice of garment is a white coat
A bike repairman’s tool of choice is in his multipurpose toolkit
When I looked through the keyhole
I found it was my own navel
that needed polishing