she has death under her skirts
she’s carrying a child that will never breathe
she’s carrying a child that will breathe a whole life long
and then stop
she can conceive a child and give it life
but never immortality
she is sick, her organs will give out
she’s carrying a flask of poison
she doesn’t know yet who to slip it to
she’s carrying a flask of poison
she doesn’t know yet when to sip
she has death under her skirts
what if she tries to get away, by whom might death be claimed
what if she peels off her skirts at night, where will death go then
does the man who kisses her know she carries death with her
did he look for death in a wife or for his wife in death
to which of them did he say ‘I do’
can you say ‘I don’t’ to death, is that any use
she has death under her skirts
it must be a small death
la petite mort
can death be small, can death be measured
or is death a seamless fit
can death be hemmed in – or cut down a size
does death come tailor-made under her skirts
or does death go undressed
is death a dreaded guest
or is it a welcome rest
can death be fended off
or can it be transcended
how do you carry death, cradled in your arms, hoping he’ll sleep through
how do you carry death out the door when the water’s seeping through
how do you carry death under your skirts
in a way that no one can see
how does death suit her under her skirts
you can’t say: death would suit you
that’s a threat
there’s no use saying: it suits you, that death
because the dead can’t (we think) hear you
there are people whom death doesn’t suit
all people, really
until they want to be taken:
‘I’d have been happy for the Lord
to take me sooner’
they picture the redeemer
not the reaper
she has death under her skirts
you can wear skirts long after life has ended
© Translation: 2020, Emma Rault
