Grow­ing Cold

New England Review - - Translations -

There was a time when I could be wounded by some­thing the moon did.

When the sight of my mother knead­ing dough sent me out into the snow.

When some­thing my fa­ther said drove a green lance in my side.

When I had to put the book down in awe of all the dead know.

When it took me hours to pre­pare to visit the ail­ing mare.

Now, I’ve built a castle and armed my­self with buck­ets of boiling tar and ar­rows.

Stocked the moat with fish with knives for teeth. Cleared the trees for miles.

I can just see to where the far woods faint up­wards, steep and green. In that bower cower

all those once-beloved things, come to do me harm.

How vig­i­lant I am! I don’t even look up to watch the moon

cat­a­pult over me nightly, though I know it by my shadow.

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