Elga Sīle

I peel her out
of my darkness
and call her real.

She’s watching TV,
desperate for something
to swallow her thoughts and attention.

Placed in front of me
I open her skin
like stage curtains.

She sits there in the limelight,
petrified,
luminous images reflecting
on her frozen face.

Yet another layer is opened,
and there she is angry,
under that looms someone scared.

Then sad, sadder, weeping,
alone in her cradle,
tucked in the collective
to prevent movement,
so that her mother can work on the field.

The yellow bells are ringing.
It takes a moment
for them to remember
what it was for.

The yellow bells are ringing.
Grandpa, suddenly awake,
his pipe still in his mouth
unlit and shaking
as he hurries outside
to look.

The yellow bells are ringing!
cries out Tove,
clutching two little ones
by the hands,
calling for the third,
while boots and mittens and hats
seem to fly around
like autumn leaves.

The yellow bells are ringing.
The cashier in Ica closes the till
in the middle of the purchase
and heads for the door
along with customers
who aren’t complaining.

The yellow bells have stopped.
Half the population
has lost one mitten,
someone has egg in their moustache,
they are looking
out at the sky.
It’s been twelve days,
and the sun has decided to visit.

I wish I could stand
close to one of the four edges
of you.

Not to step in with a negligent shoe,
but to glance down into
the pool of pure, soft ultramarine.

Away from the buzz of steel and flesh,
time and space,
alone,
dissolved,
to swim in your holy blue.