As a child, I saw the beans sprout
beneath cotton wool, sugar stick to the thread,
the petunia’s heart grown big under glass,
the butterfly spin on its pin all night…
Hard to get petunias then.
We lived in a towerblock.
In front of the shop, in a stone pot
I found some. Picked out the white one,
and it grew again, though I’d cut it right off –
I ate eyelashes, plum stones, nails.
I pulled off the scab. It was tough, it was like
I had to chew granular earth.
Years later, I shopped for my wedding.
Liked lots. Picked out the white one.
Felt the child spin in my belly all night,
and I couldn’t get out the pin.
If you won’t eat, you can’t leave the table.
Look at yourself. Look at yourself.
You shouldn’t speak, you should work.
It’s easy to eat in the dark.
Easy getting petunias then.
I planted the garden in May,
and the hailstones fell big as beans.
But it rains now. It only rains.
Traslated by Clare Pollard