Marie Silkeberg Poems

he ties my shawl, my youngest son, winding it in many layers around himself and me. refuses to go to sleep unless i let him.
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seeing his face quite gravely still the dark eyes the morning


touched him as if to imprint his body on my fingers, hands don't be sad marie. you come and you go
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a single man's black shoe slides past on the luggage belt. some boxes. grey. full or empty. fear. the exposure of poverty. the sense of catastrophe. collapse. an understanding that comes too late
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gulls in dark water. the night. the mist over the salt lake. a strange almost cat-like sound



so entirely without promises. a present so entirely without promises. the power of the minus value. to tear away the veil. or did he cry too? the promise without a promise. what is it?
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