Poem
Delphine Lecompte
ON THE SCALES
I’m standing on the scales of a survivorHe survived the following: the death of his son and the Holocaust
His name is Rémi, he hopes I stay plump forever
We can hear the sound his wife’s hand in the swimming pool water outside
She is mean and her parents were wealthy Breton cotton dyers.
Rémi agrees to talk about the death of his son, but not the other thing
I hop down from the scales and let him wrestle me to the bathroom rug
I can feel calluses and toenails on my back, and a dried-up tongue on my belly
Yesterday, I saw my first deadly snake in the wild.
Rémi’s penis slides in effortlessly
He whispers to me in his fruity Provençal accent that he doesn’t mind
Doesn’t mind I was deflowered a month ago
By an even older survivor, only of the death of a child, not the other thing
I can hear his wife’s cherries tumble into a bucket downstairs.
Afterwards, I weigh myself again: even fatter! By 400 grams
Rémi says, ‘Get dressed and make my wife a compliment.
Say she smells nice. Or that her hair looks good. Nothing about her jewellery.’
In the kitchen, I tell the wife of my second survivor,
‘You smell nice, but your husband smells nicer. Upstairs on the scales, I was his goddess.’
She grins. ‘His goddess, for ever?’ She asks with a sneer
Her blunt accent sounds almost as northern as mine
‘I hate you.’ I say, but I don’t mean it
Outside, I see the venomous snake in the wild again
It is either the same one or a hallucination.
Op de weegschaal
Op de weegschaal
Ik sta op de weegschaal van een overlevendeWat hij overleefd heeft is de dood van zijn zoon en de Holocaust
Hij heet Rémi, hij wil dat ik eeuwig mollig blijf
Buiten horen we de hand van zijn vrouw in het zwembadwater
Ze is pinnig en haar ouders waren rijke Bretonse katoenververs.
Rémi wil wel spreken over de dood van zijn zoon, maar niet over dat andere
Ik spring van de weegschaal en laat mij neerdrukken op de badkamermat
Ik voel eelt en teennagels op mijn rug, en een te droge tong op mijn buik
Gisteren heb ik mijn eerste dodelijke slang in het wild gezien.
De penis van Rémi glijdt moeiteloos naar binnen
Hij fluistert in zijn sappige Provençaalse accent dat het niet erg is
Niet erg dat ik mij een maand geleden heb laten ontmaagden
Door een nog oudere overlevende, enkel de dood van een kind, niet dat andere
Beneden hoor ik de kersen van zijn vrouw tuimelen in een emmer.
Ik weeg mij opnieuw na de daad: nog dikker! 400 gram
Rémi zegt: ‘Kleed je aan en geef een compliment aan mijn vrouw.
Dat ze lekker ruikt. Of dat haar haar goed zit. Niets over haar juwelen.’
In de keuken zeg ik tegen de vrouw van mijn tweede overlevende:
‘Je ruikt lekker, maar je man ruikt beter. Boven op de weegschaal was ik zijn godin.’
Ze grijnst. ‘Zijn godin voor eeuwig?’ Vraagt ze spottend
Haar klanken zijn bot en bijna zo noordelijk als de mijne
‘Ik haat je.’ Zeg ik, maar ik meen het niet
Buiten zie ik opnieuw de dodelijke slang in het wild
Het is dezelfde of een hallucinatie.
From: Dichter, bokser, koningsdochter
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam | Antwerpen
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam | Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Delphine Lecompte
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ON THE SCALES
I’m standing on the scales of a survivorHe survived the following: the death of his son and the Holocaust
His name is Rémi, he hopes I stay plump forever
We can hear the sound his wife’s hand in the swimming pool water outside
She is mean and her parents were wealthy Breton cotton dyers.
Rémi agrees to talk about the death of his son, but not the other thing
I hop down from the scales and let him wrestle me to the bathroom rug
I can feel calluses and toenails on my back, and a dried-up tongue on my belly
Yesterday, I saw my first deadly snake in the wild.
Rémi’s penis slides in effortlessly
He whispers to me in his fruity Provençal accent that he doesn’t mind
Doesn’t mind I was deflowered a month ago
By an even older survivor, only of the death of a child, not the other thing
I can hear his wife’s cherries tumble into a bucket downstairs.
Afterwards, I weigh myself again: even fatter! By 400 grams
Rémi says, ‘Get dressed and make my wife a compliment.
Say she smells nice. Or that her hair looks good. Nothing about her jewellery.’
In the kitchen, I tell the wife of my second survivor,
‘You smell nice, but your husband smells nicer. Upstairs on the scales, I was his goddess.’
She grins. ‘His goddess, for ever?’ She asks with a sneer
Her blunt accent sounds almost as northern as mine
‘I hate you.’ I say, but I don’t mean it
Outside, I see the venomous snake in the wild again
It is either the same one or a hallucination.
From: Dichter, bokser, koningsdochter
ON THE SCALES
I’m standing on the scales of a survivorHe survived the following: the death of his son and the Holocaust
His name is Rémi, he hopes I stay plump forever
We can hear the sound his wife’s hand in the swimming pool water outside
She is mean and her parents were wealthy Breton cotton dyers.
Rémi agrees to talk about the death of his son, but not the other thing
I hop down from the scales and let him wrestle me to the bathroom rug
I can feel calluses and toenails on my back, and a dried-up tongue on my belly
Yesterday, I saw my first deadly snake in the wild.
Rémi’s penis slides in effortlessly
He whispers to me in his fruity Provençal accent that he doesn’t mind
Doesn’t mind I was deflowered a month ago
By an even older survivor, only of the death of a child, not the other thing
I can hear his wife’s cherries tumble into a bucket downstairs.
Afterwards, I weigh myself again: even fatter! By 400 grams
Rémi says, ‘Get dressed and make my wife a compliment.
Say she smells nice. Or that her hair looks good. Nothing about her jewellery.’
In the kitchen, I tell the wife of my second survivor,
‘You smell nice, but your husband smells nicer. Upstairs on the scales, I was his goddess.’
She grins. ‘His goddess, for ever?’ She asks with a sneer
Her blunt accent sounds almost as northern as mine
‘I hate you.’ I say, but I don’t mean it
Outside, I see the venomous snake in the wild again
It is either the same one or a hallucination.
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