Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Sasja Janssen

The Way to Bury a Hand

The milk cooks to morning-yellow over the enamel saucepan
its bottom like young black earth, that fear
does not belong to night-time criers, or to black bile, or the terminal
the malicious talus and its poppies.
What does it then belong to, little milk?

To deep gardens where aerial roots take your breath away
wood lice take shelter in your sheath, fingers burrow
out of your stomach. I shrug my shoulders, stir up the fire.
With the rod against my midriff I can feel how little milk
is hotly mocking my hand, with fresh earth to bury it in.

Manier om een hand te begraven

Manier om een hand te begraven

De melk kookt ochtendgeel over het emaillen pannetje
zijn bodem als jonge zwarte aarde, dat angst
niet van nachthuilers is, of van zwarte gal, of het eindige
het kwaadaardige talud en zijn papavers.
Waar is het dan wel van, kleine melk?

Van diepe tuinen waar luchtwortels je adem afpakken
pissebedden in je schede schuilen, vingers uit je buik
draaien. Ik haal mijn schouders op, jut het vuur op.
Met de steel tegen mijn middenrif voel ik hoe kleine melk
mijn hand heet bespot, met verse aarde om hem in te begraven.

Close

The Way to Bury a Hand

The milk cooks to morning-yellow over the enamel saucepan
its bottom like young black earth, that fear
does not belong to night-time criers, or to black bile, or the terminal
the malicious talus and its poppies.
What does it then belong to, little milk?

To deep gardens where aerial roots take your breath away
wood lice take shelter in your sheath, fingers burrow
out of your stomach. I shrug my shoulders, stir up the fire.
With the rod against my midriff I can feel how little milk
is hotly mocking my hand, with fresh earth to bury it in.

The Way to Bury a Hand

The milk cooks to morning-yellow over the enamel saucepan
its bottom like young black earth, that fear
does not belong to night-time criers, or to black bile, or the terminal
the malicious talus and its poppies.
What does it then belong to, little milk?

To deep gardens where aerial roots take your breath away
wood lice take shelter in your sheath, fingers burrow
out of your stomach. I shrug my shoulders, stir up the fire.
With the rod against my midriff I can feel how little milk
is hotly mocking my hand, with fresh earth to bury it in.

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère