Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Tomas Lieske

DAUGHTER

Your feet have squashed my grapes, your hands
kneaded my dough until I could no longer breathe.

You have baked bread from me; I smelt it in the morning
but it soon dried out. You’ve emptied me.

You have put your cigarettes out in my mouth, written down
your conversations on my skin, squeezed your smile into my eyeball.

You have undressed me and you’ve laid yourself
in me, your cold feet trampled on my innards

until broken. You’ve taken my thumb in your mouth,
you have sucked off my bones. All that remains:

the peace in which you slept, that I have stolen;
your childhood’s roll of film, that I have closed.

DOCHTER

DOCHTER

Je voeten hebben mijn druiven geplet, je handen
mijn deeg gekneed tot ik geen adem meer kon halen.

Je hebt brood van mij gebakken, dat ik in de ochtend rook
maar dat snel verdroogde. Jij hebt mij leeggeschonken.

Je hebt je sigaretten in mijn mond gedoofd, je gesprekken
op mijn huid geschreven, je glimlach mijn oogbol in geperst.

Je hebt mij uitgekleed en je hebt je in mij
neergelegd, je koude voeten hebben mij ingewand

kapot getrappeld. Je hebt mijn duim in je mond genomen,
je hebt mijn botten afgekloven. Wat rest:

de vrede waarin je sliep, die ik gestolen heb;
de filmrol van je kindertijd, die ik gestolen heb.
Close

DAUGHTER

Your feet have squashed my grapes, your hands
kneaded my dough until I could no longer breathe.

You have baked bread from me; I smelt it in the morning
but it soon dried out. You’ve emptied me.

You have put your cigarettes out in my mouth, written down
your conversations on my skin, squeezed your smile into my eyeball.

You have undressed me and you’ve laid yourself
in me, your cold feet trampled on my innards

until broken. You’ve taken my thumb in your mouth,
you have sucked off my bones. All that remains:

the peace in which you slept, that I have stolen;
your childhood’s roll of film, that I have closed.

DAUGHTER

Your feet have squashed my grapes, your hands
kneaded my dough until I could no longer breathe.

You have baked bread from me; I smelt it in the morning
but it soon dried out. You’ve emptied me.

You have put your cigarettes out in my mouth, written down
your conversations on my skin, squeezed your smile into my eyeball.

You have undressed me and you’ve laid yourself
in me, your cold feet trampled on my innards

until broken. You’ve taken my thumb in your mouth,
you have sucked off my bones. All that remains:

the peace in which you slept, that I have stolen;
your childhood’s roll of film, that I have closed.
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