Poem
Charlotte Van den Broeck
Bulls head
Ever since I was born an enormous bulls head ragesin my mother’s belly. It’s on a rampage in her empty womb
creating scars in the fallow mother. Sometimes
she doesn’t quite recognise me, which is troubling
because at one time I fitted inside her perfectly. Luckily,
according to the astronomical constellation of Cancer
I’m pleasure seeking, reliable and creative. She finds this consoling,
an article of faith connecting amniotic fluid to the universe.
Whenever we had chicory baked with gammon, I’d get the crust of cheese.
All of it. Because I’d asked for it.
The love I know is dished up from a casserole,
the two extra helpings on a full plate
that second biscuit hidden in the yellow pud.
This is a typical feature of motherly conduct:
‘Stuffing ones young’.
In exchange for the void I left in her, she wanted me full and round.
Then came the morning I announced the arrival of two small breasts.
The news broke her spirit for days.
Eventually she handed me a bra,
emblazoned with Hello Kitty.
Deep inside her belly raged the snorting bulls head.
A void is emptiness only when nothing else will fit.
Gradually we fossilised into two separate creatures.
We can no longer tell
who became the insect and who
turned into amber.
© Translation: 2015, Astrid Alben
Stierenkop
Stierenkop
Sinds ik geboren ben, woedt er in de onderbuik van mijn moedereen enorme stierenkop. Hij raast door haar verlaten lijf
en maakt littekens in de braakliggende moeder, soms
weet ze niet zo goed wie ik ben, dat is verontrustend
want ooit paste ik helemaal in haar, gelukkig
ben ik volgens de astronomische constellatie van de Kreeft
genotzuchtig, betrouwbaar en creatief. Hierin vindt ze houvast,
een godsbewijs tussen vruchtwater en heelal.
Als we witlof met hesp in de oven aten, kreeg ik het kaaskorstje.
Helemaal. Omdat ik het wilde.
Liefde is iets wat ik ken uit een kookpot,
altijd twee extra scheppen op een vol bord
een tweede koekje in de gele pudding verstopt.
Dat is een veelvoorkomende vorm van moederlijk gedrag:
‘De opvulling van het jong’.
Door de holte die ik in haar naliet, wilde ze mij vol en rond.
Op een ochtend kondigde ik haar dan de komst van de kleine borsten aan.
Ze was daar dagenlang kapot van.
Uiteindelijk kreeg ik een bh,
één met Hello Kitty erop.
Vanuit haar buik bonkte de briesende stierenkop.
Een holte is pas een leegte als er niets meer in past.
Langzaam fossiliseerden we in twee aparte wezens.
Het is niet zeker
wie van ons het insect en wie
de barnsteen werd.
© 2015, Charlotte van den Broeck
From: Kameleon
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
From: Kameleon
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Charlotte Van den Broeck
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Bulls head
Ever since I was born an enormous bulls head ragesin my mother’s belly. It’s on a rampage in her empty womb
creating scars in the fallow mother. Sometimes
she doesn’t quite recognise me, which is troubling
because at one time I fitted inside her perfectly. Luckily,
according to the astronomical constellation of Cancer
I’m pleasure seeking, reliable and creative. She finds this consoling,
an article of faith connecting amniotic fluid to the universe.
Whenever we had chicory baked with gammon, I’d get the crust of cheese.
All of it. Because I’d asked for it.
The love I know is dished up from a casserole,
the two extra helpings on a full plate
that second biscuit hidden in the yellow pud.
This is a typical feature of motherly conduct:
‘Stuffing ones young’.
In exchange for the void I left in her, she wanted me full and round.
Then came the morning I announced the arrival of two small breasts.
The news broke her spirit for days.
Eventually she handed me a bra,
emblazoned with Hello Kitty.
Deep inside her belly raged the snorting bulls head.
A void is emptiness only when nothing else will fit.
Gradually we fossilised into two separate creatures.
We can no longer tell
who became the insect and who
turned into amber.
© 2015, Astrid Alben
From: Kameleon
From: Kameleon
Bulls head
Ever since I was born an enormous bulls head ragesin my mother’s belly. It’s on a rampage in her empty womb
creating scars in the fallow mother. Sometimes
she doesn’t quite recognise me, which is troubling
because at one time I fitted inside her perfectly. Luckily,
according to the astronomical constellation of Cancer
I’m pleasure seeking, reliable and creative. She finds this consoling,
an article of faith connecting amniotic fluid to the universe.
Whenever we had chicory baked with gammon, I’d get the crust of cheese.
All of it. Because I’d asked for it.
The love I know is dished up from a casserole,
the two extra helpings on a full plate
that second biscuit hidden in the yellow pud.
This is a typical feature of motherly conduct:
‘Stuffing ones young’.
In exchange for the void I left in her, she wanted me full and round.
Then came the morning I announced the arrival of two small breasts.
The news broke her spirit for days.
Eventually she handed me a bra,
emblazoned with Hello Kitty.
Deep inside her belly raged the snorting bulls head.
A void is emptiness only when nothing else will fit.
Gradually we fossilised into two separate creatures.
We can no longer tell
who became the insect and who
turned into amber.
© 2015, Astrid Alben
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