Dan Pagis
FURS
A large, carved closet, dimness, the smell of naphthalene and light perfume. Mother’s furs doze in summer sleep. The glass eyes in a silver fox head shine, dreaming of winter. I will rise forever around mother’s snowy throat. She died before I was four. She is called Julie, and no one calls for me, no one searches when day is over. I am with the furs: allowed to wait till snow.
FURS
From: Kol Hashirim Dan Pagis
Publisher: Hakibbutz Hameuchad and the Bialik Institute, Tel Aviv & Jerusalem
FURS
A large, carved closet, dimness, the smell of naphthalene and light perfume. Mother’s furs doze in summer sleep. The glass eyes in a silver fox head shine, dreaming of winter. I will rise forever around mother’s snowy throat. She died before I was four. She is called Julie, and no one calls for me, no one searches when day is over. I am with the furs: allowed to wait till snow.
From: Kol Hashirim Dan Pagis
FURS
A large, carved closet, dimness, the smell of naphthalene and light perfume. Mother’s furs doze in summer sleep. The glass eyes in a silver fox head shine, dreaming of winter. I will rise forever around mother’s snowy throat. She died before I was four. She is called Julie, and no one calls for me, no one searches when day is over. I am with the furs: allowed to wait till snow.
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