ESCAPE FROM THE KITCHEN SINK

I

O ceremonious fingers
O laundering.
There the green soap, a fistful of olive oil on the marble top.
There the bold blueing, virtually a violation
of white’s territorial waters,
Where a woman’s back
distils
into strange landscapes.
Steam of lye and the black cauldron.
Aqueducts flow from my spine.

It’s getting dark in the jam jar.
Clouds of boiling water bring winter into the kitchen.
So what did I have to offer? An effect.
I’m retiring for a while.
And so changes the mosaic’s tide.

There’s another way of looking at it.
In the basket fresh aubergines,
new widows
allaying their mourning with a touch of mauve.
A steaming dish of oranges
stirs strong feelings in me.
But the fish scales in the sink:
what impermanence.
My eyelids lower at such futility.

I hold the crystal glasses to the light.
Are they clean?
They reflect their diamond tips on my face
which darkly
– –

trails them like a brook.
The lilacs in the street market
carry me away to Paradise.

Cure me of convulsions, ewe-lamb of the vapours.

II

Pressure cooker, your steam,
a rustling poplar, ascends
and bores the concrete ceiling.
The terrace deceives itself.

My slavery is measureless.
Is everything tidy in the cupboards?
Yes, mother, I answer.
The detergents
the oregano
the milk
the rubber gloves.

I am transposed into things white.

Suspended.

At such moments to whom do I belong?
The moon’s flux inundates me.

Rarely do I become a full moon.

Afternoon.
The tap froze into lead.
Today I’m cooking for tomorrow Tuesday.
In the open saucepan the cabbage floats in its white shrouds.

– –

Primitively I squander myself.
Where does this light come from, conveying gardens, I shouted,
and at once everything sank almost knee-deep
in the shine emitted by the coarse kitchen salt.
In pain
I turned off the extractor fan.

Let the walls weep large tears of steam.

 

– –

ROWER OF DREAMS

The ramp came down
and the traveller stepped on dry land.
Clouds dripped slowly from on high
for the man to feel the place’s pulse.
The rhythm was just right for hunting
and from this fact
he prepared himself to make a pile.
He loaded his gun but hesitated
when right before him a rower of dreams
in a boat invited him to the unbeknown.
The good fellow bowed his head and jumped.
Into the chimera.

– –

IRONING

Brain-shaped clouds
paddle past the spotless pane,
as the blue sky overhangs
I iron
a damp shirt in puffs of steam.

The order of things repels me.

A heavy anchor dubs me seabed, so I’m essential.

And yet,
I’m turning tail, as if I’d never crossed
the calla lines.
Now this planet of ours,
this planet with its precious needs!
It takes mental toughness not to wind up as a respectable housewife.

For years now
the laundry basket
with clothes like curled up lambs
grabs me
and devours my song.
I get in a flat spin,
try to find a name for my bare elbows.

As the silent sideboard
looks out to sea
and I lean on it,
its dust on my fingers is good company.


– –

NUPTIAL BED

Grandma’s knitted blanket
covered the nuptial bed.
We also had a boy sit on it
so I would have a son,
we even threw sovereigns on the bed, sugar almonds
and rice.
A linen formality. At night the sheet yielded
to the blood like an animal at bay.

από Σπύρος Αραβανής
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