A Coat on the Love Seat, Translated by Heather Cadenhead
In the mornings, I feel the cold on the back of my neck,
that bone-deep, ice cold—shutting my eyes tight as if
not seeing it translates to not feeling it.
American beech trees line either side of the street:
bronze leaves, uncombed and wet and soft
like a man's short, matted hair after a shower.
Yellow pine cones lie on the limp grass like drunken women
on chaise lounges after a party at Jay Gatsby's,
succumbing, fawning to nature.
In the afternoons, I wear my coat inside
the office building, mug of cold coffee from the house
balanced on my knee: I work, I work.
At night, I lie on a bed with you, the beech trees
silhouetting our room, twigged branches
like fingers, reaching to touch.
Here, my coat is on the love seat in the living room,
discarded for something more natural. Inside
this house: I work, I work.
that bone-deep, ice cold—shutting my eyes tight as if
not seeing it translates to not feeling it.
American beech trees line either side of the street:
bronze leaves, uncombed and wet and soft
like a man's short, matted hair after a shower.
Yellow pine cones lie on the limp grass like drunken women
on chaise lounges after a party at Jay Gatsby's,
succumbing, fawning to nature.
In the afternoons, I wear my coat inside
the office building, mug of cold coffee from the house
balanced on my knee: I work, I work.
At night, I lie on a bed with you, the beech trees
silhouetting our room, twigged branches
like fingers, reaching to touch.
Here, my coat is on the love seat in the living room,
discarded for something more natural. Inside
this house: I work, I work.
Heather Cadenhead is a recent graduate of Union University in Jackson, Tennessee. In 2008, she graduated, got married, and lost most of her stuff in an F4 tornado. She hopes 2009 will be a little less eventful.
