The Dead

I often think of them,
the dead
no one remembers
of Irmgard
who went in the river
of Lele
who jumped from the bridge
and of him, whose name
slips my mind
but it was out of sick love,
this I have not forgotten.
He sat in his car
inhaling
exhaust emission
because he knew
we were all lacking air.

My father,
for whom the end was made
so easy
a gentle exhalation
into the unknown,
and my grandmother
who spoke to me aloud
from inside my head
with a voice of ore,
her own already
interwoven with growth.

They are closer to me
than the living,
among whom
I move with deformed gills
as if wading through water.

But the thoughts of the dead
traverse me
like a procession of lanterns –
urging me, tugging,
demanding my presence

and I fend them off
out of mere habit,
go on swimming –
but almost, almost
I tarry,
I know, fear, I hope
I’ll soon
be among them.
‍

Lund ‍

How desperately 
these seagulls imitate roosters 
in a city where all the puddles
try to resemble lakes,
neither becks nor rivers 
carry water 

Here
no one dares 
to dream of the sea.

‍

Photograph by Gaspar Zaldo
‍