THE GLASSES Poem by Stefan Hertmans
THE GLASSES
Picking red currants
On an empty day,
Black clouds, a windy afternoon,
Her fingers gleaming from the juice,
She thinks of scars and sugar,
Bitter stalks and nectar.
Then she obediently fills
The hot rinsed glasses,
Jar after shining fluted jar.
She sets her sobs in bowls
Carefully stacked to the brim
For long warm winters stored
on ancient racks of patience.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/23/2024 1:06:53 AM # 1.0.0.1119
