[The word for magazine in my language: time writings]
I cautiously descend the stairs into myselfnot faltering but not sure-footed, either, not quite
I try being funny just to see what will happentry looking tired so I’ll be excused
I don’t get hungry anymore, and yet I eat all the timeone heaping plate after another
cautiously, descendscrutinizing each floor as if at an open house
I don’t need to renovatelazy by nature, I’ve yet to take the studded tires off the car and it’s mid-May
my knuckles are white
I am not what I eatI am what I sleep
every morning, my daughter points to the living room windowand says: get the sun
I clink when I walkmy feet are piggy banks
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what have I saved up?steps? love? saying what I want?
I want more timeand if these are the years that pass in a fogI also want as much comfort as possible
in twenty years, I’ll emerge from the eartha mole in late middle age
and I won’t remember writing this poemwhile eating this apple
is this life? yes, this is life, growing larger and smaller in turndouble bags, half-circles under half-circles
I no longer think in metaphorsmetaphors are a privilege
I’ve stopped releasing eggs, I’m stockpiling themto lob at judiciously chosen houseslike stones
I punch all sorts of things into a little calculatorestimate the viability of my thoughtsestimate what freedom will cost
what writing will costa clean house
Get unlimited access: $9.50 for six months.
in my language, the verb forbeing willing to spendis to time
this is because time is our true currency
can I time twenty-four hours?can I time a week? can I time ten days?
I have a talent:I can always squeeze a bit more out of a tube of toothpaste
I wend my way down all manner of paths, tramp all manner of treadsreflect tranquility back to some people and childlike glee to others
chemistry is everythingchemistry is really the only thing I’m chasing
me and this apple
but why has my chemistry withtime changed? my rhythm mutated
Monday, Friday, Monday, Friday
ten years agoI almost broke my husband’s dick
since then, I haven’t gotten my rhythm back againthat way, on top
something happens, and we changewe sleep poorly, and we change
my eyes, two full moonsencircled by shining halos
I walk up stairs and downforget shopping bags in the middle of the sidewalk, drive away
put dirty clothes in, take clean clothes outwash this body every two days
I don’t time and my feet are piggy banks
the laughing and the crying in my housesync up with the washing machine
I time not verbs anymore, hop from noun to noun
can’t tell you what I did yesterdayyesterday, ferryboat, the great fog
when I hit puberty, I became fixated withhow to have sex without being naked
nudity was an impossibility
until it wasn’t
I think about that a lot, wonderwhat will be possible later that is impossible now?
my body has stopped releasing eggsdoesn’t time them, energy-wise
they are piling up now, all in one beautiful raffia basketmonth after month
pretty soon, I’m going to cast them, like stonesat some judiciously chosen house
(Translated by Larissa Kyzer)
Fríða ÍsbergFríða Ísberg is an Icelandic author based in Reykjavík. Her books are the poetry collections Stretch Marks and Leather Jacket Weather, the short story collection Itch and her debut novel The Mark.