Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marieke Lucas Rijneveld

LET US STROKE EACH OTHER

We begin simply by coming closer, slowly pressing away the air
between our bodies like jars of summer vegetables that suck themselves vacuum:
preservation always begins with the application of a label.

Go then, on your knees, plant my hand upon your hairs and rub back and forth -
a reversed way of waving until your locks become sticky.

We know of people that stand too far apart even for waving
where waves of dismissal have become a form of breathing, the air must
always be declared pure before they proceed: this must not happen to us.

You were nine when you said that you were like a bathtub, something that would always need
another to fill itself, I let the water run and you showed me where
the gap was, how it began at the top, then fell

a film in a museum showed a rabbit thrown into the deep, to see which
animals, like cats, could land on their feet, no, it touched the ground,
appeared for a moment at one with the structure of the floor until it bounced -
this they called art but you screamed: touch me here, now

because wasn’t I the man who caused you to fuse like a jar
that has burst open from too much warmth, who should know the gaps like
crawl spaces in a hollowed-out loaf.

I’ve let you wallow so long, continuously refilling the bath until the day your skin
no longer soaks up the water and a shadow that is strange to you seeps into every pleat.

Come, show yourself now not so nakedly, this flesh has been strange to me since birth
but do let me stroke you – that’s part of it, they say - it’s allowed.

LATEN WE ELKAAR AAIEN

LATEN WE ELKAAR AAIEN

We beginnen gewoon met dichterbij komen, persen de lucht langzaam weg
tussen onze lichamen als weckpotten met zomergroente die zich vacuüm zuigen
langer houdbaar begint altijd met het aanbrengen van een etiket

ga dan door je knieën, plant mijn hand op je haren, wrijf heen en weer
een omgekeerde manier van zwaaien totdat je lokken kleverig worden.

We kennen mensen die zelfs voor zwaaien te ver van elkaar af staan
waar het wegwuiven een vorm van ademhalen is geworden, de lucht moet
altijd schoon verklaard zijn voordat ze verder kunnen: dit mag ons niet gebeuren.

Negen was je toen je zei dat je als de badkuip was, iets wat altijd een ander nodig
zou hebben om zichzelf te vullen, ik liet het water lopen en je toonde mij waar
het gat zich bevond, hoe het bovenin was begonnen, daarna gevallen

een konijn werd in een museumfilmpje in de diepte gegooid, om te kijken welke
dieren net als katten op hun pootjes terechtkomen, nee, het raakte de grond
leek even één te worden met de structuur van de vloer tot het opveerde
dit noemden ze kunst maar jij schreeuwde: raak me hier aan, nu

want ik was toch de man uit wie je was samengesmolten als een weckpot
die openbarstte door te veel aan warmte, die de gaten zou kennen als
kruipruimtes in een uitgehold brood.

Ik laat je zo lang dwalen, steeds opnieuw het bad vullen tot op een dag je huid
het water niet meer opneemt, in iedere plooi een schaduw komt die je vreemd is.

Kom toon je nu niet zo naakt, dit vlees is mij vanaf de geboorte al vreemd geweest
maar laat me je wel aaien, dat hoort erbij zeggen ze, het mag.
Close

LET US STROKE EACH OTHER

We begin simply by coming closer, slowly pressing away the air
between our bodies like jars of summer vegetables that suck themselves vacuum:
preservation always begins with the application of a label.

Go then, on your knees, plant my hand upon your hairs and rub back and forth -
a reversed way of waving until your locks become sticky.

We know of people that stand too far apart even for waving
where waves of dismissal have become a form of breathing, the air must
always be declared pure before they proceed: this must not happen to us.

You were nine when you said that you were like a bathtub, something that would always need
another to fill itself, I let the water run and you showed me where
the gap was, how it began at the top, then fell

a film in a museum showed a rabbit thrown into the deep, to see which
animals, like cats, could land on their feet, no, it touched the ground,
appeared for a moment at one with the structure of the floor until it bounced -
this they called art but you screamed: touch me here, now

because wasn’t I the man who caused you to fuse like a jar
that has burst open from too much warmth, who should know the gaps like
crawl spaces in a hollowed-out loaf.

I’ve let you wallow so long, continuously refilling the bath until the day your skin
no longer soaks up the water and a shadow that is strange to you seeps into every pleat.

Come, show yourself now not so nakedly, this flesh has been strange to me since birth
but do let me stroke you – that’s part of it, they say - it’s allowed.

LET US STROKE EACH OTHER

We begin simply by coming closer, slowly pressing away the air
between our bodies like jars of summer vegetables that suck themselves vacuum:
preservation always begins with the application of a label.

Go then, on your knees, plant my hand upon your hairs and rub back and forth -
a reversed way of waving until your locks become sticky.

We know of people that stand too far apart even for waving
where waves of dismissal have become a form of breathing, the air must
always be declared pure before they proceed: this must not happen to us.

You were nine when you said that you were like a bathtub, something that would always need
another to fill itself, I let the water run and you showed me where
the gap was, how it began at the top, then fell

a film in a museum showed a rabbit thrown into the deep, to see which
animals, like cats, could land on their feet, no, it touched the ground,
appeared for a moment at one with the structure of the floor until it bounced -
this they called art but you screamed: touch me here, now

because wasn’t I the man who caused you to fuse like a jar
that has burst open from too much warmth, who should know the gaps like
crawl spaces in a hollowed-out loaf.

I’ve let you wallow so long, continuously refilling the bath until the day your skin
no longer soaks up the water and a shadow that is strange to you seeps into every pleat.

Come, show yourself now not so nakedly, this flesh has been strange to me since birth
but do let me stroke you – that’s part of it, they say - it’s allowed.
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