Achtste psalm
Nee. Nee. De frou is fleurich, sy glimket nei har búk. Sy hat in pûdfol sinesappels opslokt en is hiel foldien.
Want sy hat de reis goed trochstien en yn har keamer binne de lytse minsken.
Want sy hat de ôfspraakjes achteryn de Fords oerlibbe, sy hat de pimels fan har tienerjierren oerlibbe om hjir te kommen, yn de echtlike haven.
Want sy is de ferbeane, dy’t mei har tsien lange fingers seit hoe let it is.
Want sy is de gefaarlike heuvels en hiel wat klimmers reitsje op sa’n trochtocht ferlern.
Want sy is losrekke fan it minskdom; sy breidet in babysjaal fan har eigen hier.
Want sy is troch Christopher yn in kreas pakketsje proppe dat pas nei wiken iepengiet.
Want sy is in mannichte, sy is in protte. Sy is elk fan ús wylst wy ússels mei in handoek ôfdrûgje.
Want sy wurdt fiede troch it tsjuster.
Want sy leit yn de donkere keamer bonken te plak.
Want sy klusteret goud en sulver, mineralen en gemikaliën.
Want sy is in oppotter, sy ferstoppet side en wol, lippen en wite eachjes.
Want sy sjocht no de ein fan har opsluting en as in stien wachtet sy op de wetters.
Want de baby lit syn holtsje sjen en der is minskelemieren yn de wrâld.
Want de baby leit yn syn wetter en bloed en der is in minskeskreau yn de wrâld.
Want de baby drinkt tate en der is in folk makke fan molke dat sy brûke kin. Der binne molkbeammen om har yn te flústerjen. Der binne molkbêden om op te lizzen en te dreamen fan in waarme keamer. Der binne molkfingers om ticht en iepen te tearen. Der binne molkpoepertsjes dy’t wiet binne, streake wurde en in ruft omkrije.
Want der binne in protte molkwrâlden om ûnder de moanne trochhinne te rinnen.
Want de baby groeit en de mem nimt har hummeltsje op ’e knibbel en sjongt in liet oer Christopher en Anne.
Want de mem sjongt lieten oer de baby dy’t der weet fan hie.
Want de mem hat noch weet fan de baby dy’t sy wie en noait slút sy op of knoeit sy of set sy earne fier fuort apart.
Want de baby libbet. De mem sil stjerre en as sy stjert, giet Christopher mei har mei. Christopher dy’t syn tuten trochboarre en jubele om twa út ien te meitsjen.
Eighth Psalm
No. No. The woman is cheerful, she smiles at her stomach. She has swallowed a bagful of oranges and is well pleased.
For she has come through the voyage fit and her room carries the little people.
For she has outlived the dates in the back of Fords, she has outlived the penises of her teens to come here, to the married harbor.
For she is the forbidden one, telling time by her ten long fingers.
For she is the dangerous hills and many a climber will be lost on such a passage.
For she is lost from mankind; she is knitting her own hair into a baby shawl.
For she is stuffed by Christopher into a neat package that will not undo until the weeks pass.
For she is a magnitude, she is many. She is each of us patting ourselves dry with a towel.
For she is nourished by darkness.
For she is in the dark room putting bones into place.
For she is clustering the gold and the silver, the minerals and the chemicals.
For she is a hoarder, she puts away silks and wools and lips and small white eyes.
For she is seeing the end of her confinement now and is waiting like a stone for the waters.
For the baby crowns and there is a people-dawn in the world.
For the baby lies in its water and blood and there is a people-cry in the world.
For the baby suckles and there is a people made of milk for her to use. There are milk trees to hiss her on. There are milk beds in which to lie and dream of a warm room. There are milk fingers to fold and unfold. There are milk bottoms that are wet and caressed and put into their cotton.
For there are many worlds of milk to walk through under the moon.
For the baby grows and the mother places her giggle-jog on her knee and sings a song of Christopher and Anne.
For the mother sings songs of the baby that knew.
For the mother remembers the baby she was and never locks or twists or puts lonely into a foreign place.
For the baby lives. The mother will die and when she does Christopher will go with her. Christopher who stabbed his kisses and cried up to make two out of one.
O Ye Tongues [VIII], út The Death Notebooks, 1974