Anna Ådahl


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The children bring back their hordes
I do not recall my hands 
in that city I had no 
hands 
 
 
Light grey breathing exhaust fumes 
Winter begins at the wrist 
ends in March 
 
Narrow amble on the sidewalk 
shoving off the tiniest one 
 
A chalk white coat 
piece of January, 
then a flashing streak of rose – 
 
What is that sudden gleam? 
Silk lining 
no, the blood red 
 
I did not touch her 
I promise. The Acephalous 
in this city have no hands. 
 
 
Beneath the paving-stone 
there is no beach, ice only 
the bare madness of the straight stretch: Lose yourself 
downwards onto the eggshell white, grazed 
scraped kneecaps 
The joints rip 
my lining surges 
 
Flocking together on the pavement 
horde, survey 
the sludgy mouths of the children, 
gravelled gaze 
A sun streak bursting out – 
brilliant bowels 
 
The sound of meat transport, wallowing 
over on the side 
into a mouth 
onto a word 
swallowing and swallowing, 
the incomprehensible clogs in the throat, piles up 
your stinking 
mouth 
Siren blue the whole shitload, 
hands groping about, extending over – 
twinkle little accident 
now straddle this crossing 
infernal blue light 
 
In my head 
eyes, taunt, blasting into this 
real     look
 
A dazzling disrupt 
a mother, or a mouth – 
Street, what is your name? 
Hatch out the light from your hand 
lustrous spittle 
moi, the horde 
 
Her lying there like modern dance 
The tilted promise of her neck 
searching, gust 
the children are bolting, stealing upon, dashing round 
twitching beats of wings 
bird’s heart 
fluttering in the throat 
The slow smell of thawing 
Why does it jerk and twist? 
 
City, within the pale of, crypt 
 
Throw a last, killing smile 
catch the eye – 
launch and expose your rose lining  
extend yourself – Rose 
make the penultimate warm 
this roaring face 
 
Something in long sleeves, something slithered down 
turned inside out 
 
(the diseases were translated at every frontier 
the accent was uncomprehensible 
pig snout, letter pain) 
 
The skies are pressing like a fading bruise 
who touches our children when they whisper 
something about the mother 
The sirens, 
weaving their way through the mother 
emergency rattle, turnout 
the worst winter, the shortest day 
the longest moment  
 
Shortly you will recognize your home obliquely from above 
as from an air photograph 
the clouds resemble losely clenched hands