PRÓBY ZAPISU, A book of wasted flowers No. 1

2022-07-04 13:17

On the fifteenth page of Kerouac’s On the Road
I found a card of the Purple Ink tattoo parlour

I had to look against the light, at the pattern on the mustard yellow
linen curtains. We drank at an even pace, but I was the first
to look for a cushion and a place
to rest. One faint lamp in the street. I don’t know if
needed on such a warm, bright night.

Children switch from English to Polish when
they don’t want to be understood, they dissolve into laughter.
I can just lie there and listen to their antics. Their resonant
rustling. They end the day. In the valley several side roads
start in bars where fathers tell their
jokes. Then they go back, their knees buckling, wind
making noise.

Dark contours of the passing cars. One day
somebody will stop and get out. Walk past the bog,
pay the children for the lemonade. At the same moment
you will feel a pang. And another one, and another. Ink will spread
under the skin. Nausea from repeated moves,
from piercing. Nobody yearns for death, but
the thought returns at times. Jazz and the heavenly view over the fields.

Purple sky spilling over from behind the hill.
Sheep munching on grass, steamed up windows.
One day you will say it’s the best sunset
picture. I’ll invite you in. Several times.

[przełożyła Anna Błasiak]
© Małgorzata Południak

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