scissors
cut a piece from the eyelid of a son or daughter
and sew into one’s eyelids
cut a piece of a young female arse and add to
an older male arse
cut a piece from a lip and put in a secret place
on the body where few will find it
cut, exchange nipples
old gets a new one, new gets an old one
a son gets a father’s, a mother a son’s
put the spare nipple
of a deceased friend or animal
on one buttock
open possibilities in communication
grapple about things
grow together not apart
no end
headless morning
early one morning you receive in the post
the head of a man
damp with blood
on the doorstep
like the milk here before
like the morning papers of days gone by
like the letters in the envelopes
and the sound of a car engine grows distant
who wishes me ill?
you think at the same time as you
finger your neck
the sun and the morning songs of the birds
empty what’s left of the consciousness
Photograph © Брусника
The above poems are taken from Waitress in Fall by Kristín Ómarsdóttir, selected and translated from the Icelandic by Vala Thorodds, published by Carcanet and Partus Press in July 2018. Order your copy here.
