Sunday, June 11, 2017

The dogs are sharp

I watched a girl locked into a watchful house
biting fingernails, nailpolish
serving as colourful garnish

I watched her lift a weapon, clumsily
and shoot herself in the mirror
directly into the head
the town beyond reach
there is no entertainment here
all there is is watching
watching out and fear

I watched her sitting next to the bed of a blind grandfather, now
a man of delusions, staring into bitterness
he can go nowhere but
there is a sense of duty here: a tear
feeding a forbidden lake just around the corner
completely out of reach

Its surface a mirror of long gone memories
a long gone father
a long gone childhood
boat rides and fishing adventures
there was the sound of laughter
above the surface of this mystic water
an existence the girl once called her life
without questioning, now she wouldn‘t dare
to find a name for it or claim any possessions:

Worn out sweaters, worn out memories
dreams, worn out and sucked into years
of running around the same old walls of the same old house
What to own in a disowned, stolen life?

The dogs are sharp
the dogs keep barking
at elders who don’t have solutions
for little girls with dreams
for fathers consumed by struggles
for mothers consumed by worries
for grandmothers consumed by songs of
a long gone life at the foot of snow-covered mountains

Everything has rules
that might change over time

The dogs keep barking
they have a good nose
for men without honour
for culprits and the sweat of guilt and fear

She will meet him
one day
he will be not the same
the future was just one step
ahead of a moment
in which everything changed

He changed without warning
they locked him up
she still calls him brother
not the same
no words left for
his face, his heart, his games
not the same

They might come to shoot her
they might come
they might
come and go with me to london
I will give you my house, my bed
a marginal sense of shelter

I watched her arguing with an elder sister
escaping from suitors who might be her only escape
I watched her riding
a smile, a bicycle, on the same spot
again and again around that old tree
whose seed once fell
into the lap of a field
that now is called a garden
uncared for
there seems to be no need
to care
for slow things when all one eats
has the same old taste, restless

Something grows into years of waiting
between her shoulders, her blades
a tiny drop of water, a wanting
a seed was planted there
by her nightmare’s elder brother: revenge
has a face, has a name
he might come to shoot her
he might come
he might

She will have to face him
long after her escape
she will have to face him opening the fire
blowing her head off
in the mirror frame
she will face her buried, churning fear
her nightmare's restless brother