mo(re) ther's words

Threesome, Foursome

In the dooryard, puckered mint,
you pucker back, you leaf a hint.

Mind this hour; it is your time,
mine the mouth and yours the rhyme.

Mine's the mouth, though it is still,
full of words that will not fill.

Some spell narrowness, some breadth,
and recall the brush with death.

I make one, and we make three,
one half bound, one half free.

In the dooryard, puckered mint,
you pucker back, you leave a hint.


(I know you: you're the one who's bent so low.

(I know you: you're the one who's bent so low.
You hold me - I'm the riddled one - in bondage.
What word could burn as witness for us two?
You're my reality. I'm your mirage.)


Frankfurt, September

Blind wall-space,
bearded by brilliances.
A dream of a cockchafer
sheds light on it.

Behind that, raster of lamentations,
Freud's forehead opens up:

the tear
compacted of silence
breaks out in a proposition:
"Psycho-
logy for the last
time."

The psuedo-jackdraw
(cough-caw's double)
is breakfasting.

The glottal stop is breaking
into song.


-Paul Celan, glottal stop, trans. Nikolai Popov & Heather McHugh (2000)