Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Vicky Francken

X-Ray Model

I


Lift your shirt, I want to check
it’s purring under the hood
but turn the light off, your lungs are lovely
in the dark. Listen: that rumble

can be remedied, but isn’t it glorious
to carry the sound of the sea?

Blood banging the drum.

There’s a snail living in the shell
you lift to your ear.


II


The machine is a lighthouse
that every now and then lights up
to guide you through the milling
shallows, this way.

They want to help you
but you feel small and in the open.

Your legs are nice and firm
but in China, they’d have them broken.


III


You lie on the bed like it’s carbon paper.
You leave traces.

A shield of quill-pens on your chest
shows your blood’s still flowing.

The doctor wears a white coat
but calls himself a photographer.


IV


When I see you lying there like that
I want to splint you
and loan you my autograph.

We are all of us
alone. We are
many.


V


Can you strike a different pose?

Your vital statistics – I see them shimmer

just outside your insides, if you would just –
yeah, like that – a picture-perfect interior

didn’t I tell you.


VI


You don’t like seeing yourself:

your skeleton only lights up
when you turn on the box

but your chart
glows with praise

looking good today, as usual.


VII


Headfirst over the pain threshold

ribs like bread for breaking

is there someone
who’ll hold you up to the light

will there be someone
who longs to hold you


VIII


Cheers. Now that your bracelet’s off
after all this time, I do need to see

your ID. Show the document
that states how long you’ve been a human being.

I’ve taken so many shots of you
and now you’re free to go.

Be glad.

Röntgenfotomodel

Röntgenfotomodel

I
 

Til je hemd op, ik wil zien dat het klopt
maar doe het licht uit, je longen zijn mooi
in het donker. Luister: dat ruisje
 
kan wel verholpen, maar is het niet hemels
de zee mee te nemen?
 
Bloed dat de trom slaat.
 
Er leeft een slak in de schelp
die je aan je oor zet.
 
 
II
 

Het apparaat is een vuurtoren
die af en toe oplicht
om je door ondiepe armen
te loodsen, deze kant op.
 
Ze willen je helpen
maar je voelt je klein en bekeken.
 
Je hebt gezonde, stevige benen
maar in China zou men ze breken.
 
 
III
 

Je ligt op bed als op carbonpapier.
Je laat je sporen na.
 
Een schild van verenpennen op je borst
laat zien dat je bloed het nog doet.
 
De dokter draagt een witte jas
maar noemt zich fotograaf.
 
 
IV
 

Als je daar zo ligt wil ik je spalken
en je mijn handtekening lenen.
 
We zijn allemaal
alleen. We zijn
met velen.
 
 
V
 

Kun je nog een andere pose aannemen?
 
De ideale verhoudingen, ik zie ze schitteren
 
aan de rand van je binnenkant, als je nou even, zo
ja, vanbinnen een voorbeeld
 
ik zei het je toch.
 
 
VI
 

Je ziet jezelf niet graag:
 
je skelet geeft pas licht
als je de bak aanzet
 
maar op het rapport staan
zalvende woorden
 
je staat er weer mooi op vandaag.

 
VII
 

Halsoverkop de pijndrempel over
 
ribben als brood om te breken
 
of er iemand is
die je tegen het licht houdt
 
of er iemand komt
die ernaar verlangt je te strelen
 
 
VIII
 

Proost. Nu je geen armband meer draagt
moet ik je na al die tijd toch vragen
 
om legitimatie. Toon het document
dat zegt hoe lang je al mens
 
bent. Zoveel foto’s van je
gemaakt en nu mag je gaan.
 
Wees blij.
Close

X-Ray Model

I


Lift your shirt, I want to check
it’s purring under the hood
but turn the light off, your lungs are lovely
in the dark. Listen: that rumble

can be remedied, but isn’t it glorious
to carry the sound of the sea?

Blood banging the drum.

There’s a snail living in the shell
you lift to your ear.


II


The machine is a lighthouse
that every now and then lights up
to guide you through the milling
shallows, this way.

They want to help you
but you feel small and in the open.

Your legs are nice and firm
but in China, they’d have them broken.


III


You lie on the bed like it’s carbon paper.
You leave traces.

A shield of quill-pens on your chest
shows your blood’s still flowing.

The doctor wears a white coat
but calls himself a photographer.


IV


When I see you lying there like that
I want to splint you
and loan you my autograph.

We are all of us
alone. We are
many.


V


Can you strike a different pose?

Your vital statistics – I see them shimmer

just outside your insides, if you would just –
yeah, like that – a picture-perfect interior

didn’t I tell you.


VI


You don’t like seeing yourself:

your skeleton only lights up
when you turn on the box

but your chart
glows with praise

looking good today, as usual.


VII


Headfirst over the pain threshold

ribs like bread for breaking

is there someone
who’ll hold you up to the light

will there be someone
who longs to hold you


VIII


Cheers. Now that your bracelet’s off
after all this time, I do need to see

your ID. Show the document
that states how long you’ve been a human being.

I’ve taken so many shots of you
and now you’re free to go.

Be glad.

X-Ray Model

I


Lift your shirt, I want to check
it’s purring under the hood
but turn the light off, your lungs are lovely
in the dark. Listen: that rumble

can be remedied, but isn’t it glorious
to carry the sound of the sea?

Blood banging the drum.

There’s a snail living in the shell
you lift to your ear.


II


The machine is a lighthouse
that every now and then lights up
to guide you through the milling
shallows, this way.

They want to help you
but you feel small and in the open.

Your legs are nice and firm
but in China, they’d have them broken.


III


You lie on the bed like it’s carbon paper.
You leave traces.

A shield of quill-pens on your chest
shows your blood’s still flowing.

The doctor wears a white coat
but calls himself a photographer.


IV


When I see you lying there like that
I want to splint you
and loan you my autograph.

We are all of us
alone. We are
many.


V


Can you strike a different pose?

Your vital statistics – I see them shimmer

just outside your insides, if you would just –
yeah, like that – a picture-perfect interior

didn’t I tell you.


VI


You don’t like seeing yourself:

your skeleton only lights up
when you turn on the box

but your chart
glows with praise

looking good today, as usual.


VII


Headfirst over the pain threshold

ribs like bread for breaking

is there someone
who’ll hold you up to the light

will there be someone
who longs to hold you


VIII


Cheers. Now that your bracelet’s off
after all this time, I do need to see

your ID. Show the document
that states how long you’ve been a human being.

I’ve taken so many shots of you
and now you’re free to go.

Be glad.
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