Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

L.F. Rosen

Fluid Parents

It rains on their insides.
The purple mountain ridges
of the heart and the red ravines
of the kidneys can scarcely cope
with the water. An inland sea
laps against the stomach wall,
sometimes just dribbles out.

We plough through cupboards of atlases
in search of the map
of this fluid fatherland.
Which they casually produce
from under a nightshirt
and which is as sodden
as their faces.

Sick mouths, dripping, badger
us, make a body map.
Lovely ugly hands
show us the way, the secret
route. Via the fattest paunch on
earth to our own feet,
soon to be swollen with fluid.

Vochtige ouders

Vochtige ouders

Op hun ingewanden regent het.
De purperen bergkammen
van het hart en de rode ravijnen
van de nieren kunnen het water
nauwelijks aan. Een binnenzee
klotst op de maagwand, druppelt
soms zomaar naar buiten.

Kasten vol atlassen doorploegen
wij op zoek naar de kaart
van dat vochtig vaderland.
Die zij achteloos vanonder
een nachthemd tevoorschijn
halen en die al even door-
weekt is als hun gelaat.

Zieke monden praten druipend
op ons in, brengen het lichaam
in kaart. Mooie lelijke handen
wijzen ons de weg, de geheime
route. Over de dikste buik ter
wereld naar onze eigen binnenkort
van vocht gezwollen voeten.
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Fluid Parents

It rains on their insides.
The purple mountain ridges
of the heart and the red ravines
of the kidneys can scarcely cope
with the water. An inland sea
laps against the stomach wall,
sometimes just dribbles out.

We plough through cupboards of atlases
in search of the map
of this fluid fatherland.
Which they casually produce
from under a nightshirt
and which is as sodden
as their faces.

Sick mouths, dripping, badger
us, make a body map.
Lovely ugly hands
show us the way, the secret
route. Via the fattest paunch on
earth to our own feet,
soon to be swollen with fluid.

Fluid Parents

It rains on their insides.
The purple mountain ridges
of the heart and the red ravines
of the kidneys can scarcely cope
with the water. An inland sea
laps against the stomach wall,
sometimes just dribbles out.

We plough through cupboards of atlases
in search of the map
of this fluid fatherland.
Which they casually produce
from under a nightshirt
and which is as sodden
as their faces.

Sick mouths, dripping, badger
us, make a body map.
Lovely ugly hands
show us the way, the secret
route. Via the fattest paunch on
earth to our own feet,
soon to be swollen with fluid.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère