Geneviève Desrosiers (tr. Oana Avasilichioaei)

You

You sir, I love you.
For all time and for no time.
And if on occasion your step is lame, it’s rather
a refinement than a handicap.
You wouldn’t know how to put out a flame,
even if the house flared up.
Your step sir is much too light for us to take it
into consideration. Tell me again of your brief
house.
Tell me again of your brief house.

 

We

We will have new baths full of silt and atrocious smells.
Our bodies will weep droplets of brown soot.
You’ll see how happy we’ll be.
Each day, we’ll incense our fifteen years in praise.
Our cut velvet armchairs will reach the heavens, we’ll even have faith.
Soothsayers will rest at our shut doors in quest of a glass of milk.
Our children will never say anything.
Mornings will be hot, evenings cold.
Our eyes will stop gazing at each other only to pick the green apples
      we’ll lazily drop into a large basket, with its wicker of dull sheen.
You’ll see how happy we’ll be.
We’ll give pearls to swine, coins to the poor,
booze to boozers, kisses to lovers, meat to dogs, fish to birds, and dough to killers.
Our friends will no longer leave us.
We’ll lay our mothers and fathers on the field of honour.
Geriatrical alchemists will wait till the cows come home in front of our clean,
      numerous windows.
Music will soothe our terrible and shameful mores.
We’ll speak English with a Salvadorian accent, to remind ourselves of our
      late Chico, killed in the war like a carp.
We’ll have birds of prey jammed in the cracks of cupboards, stewed chicken
      pie and potted fowl.
Many will be our enemies.
You’ll see how happy we’ll be.