Friday, April 28
THROUGH THE LAKE, THROUGH THE WATER The beeches stand there, imposing, untouched, steeped in time: I wander through tall yellow hall of leaves and listen to the open chords: October, whoever cries here cries inwards, the wood bridge has sucked the salve dry. The underworldly bamboo flutes resound through the lake, through the water, the wind is lead poured into stone molds. I happen to end up on that strip of beach where you and I made love one summer day in the short dry grass. There’s a you in every poem, a courage or a great fear, there are constellations carved out right here, spokes of blue in the eye of the migratory birds, the words you laughingly taught me to pronounce. And the Black Portuguese spoken in Mozambique is still the softest language I know. To my ears, all your words sound round and powerful, like our “love” or “freedom.” Days when I stand with my eyes closed and feel around. As if by a hard kick, as if by a caress. Your short, light-blue summer dress fluttering away through the burning foliage. The weather changes sex. The dark lake solidifies. (Johannes Anyuru,translated from Swedish by Brad Harmon)