Safia Elhillo
ORPHEUS
ORPHEUS
Schimmel bloeit op de yoghurt, als bont in oude kleuren
op de randen. Mijn lichaam is iets wat ik gedragen heb
voor andere mensen. Zelfs vijf jaar geleden
zou ik mezelf zoals ik nu ben niet herkennen, getrouwd, hersluitbare
zakjes met botten en maiskolven in de vriezer om bouillon van te trekken.
Ik ben ver weg van de steden uit mijn meisjesjeugd, het koele beton
van hun trappenhuizen. De nieuwe therapeut wil een lijst met complimenten
die ik mezelf zou geven namens diegene die van me houden, het enige wat ik kan
bedenken is vindingrijk. Een hele tijd geloofde ik dat ik verliefd was op Orpheus,
wat alleen betekende dat ik hield van wat ik kon maken als ik vrij was
van wat er gebeurde met mijn lichaam. De man die me nooit
aan zou raken, op afstand gehouden zonder gevaar door de grenzen van fictie.
Toen geloofde ik dat het werk me zou redden. Ik heb nu niets
aan die Griekse mythen, hun dode meisjes, vrouwen verkracht door mannen
en dieren. Vandaag is de deur op slot. Vandaag is er niemand buiten.
Kramp halverwege het baantje in het donkerblauwe water. Nu borduur ik
bloemen in flauwe kleuren in mijn nieuwe land van bloemen, onhandige steken
door het sjabloon van een orchidee, ik herinner me mijn jonge mond
tegen een fluit gedrukt, niet in staat om de adem los te laten. Ik had het fijn gevonden dat
hij een muzikant was, vingers lang als een lente-ui. Als kind maakte ik al mijn truien stuk,
de mouwen over mijn handen getrokken voordat ik een deurknop aanraakte
of muntjes aanpakte. Tiener, rondhangend, urgent eenzaam.
De katoenen t-shirts krullend aan hun gescheurde onderkant. Nu heb ik dikke vingers
zoals mijn moeder en haar moeder, de geur van bleek op keramiek.
Weg is L’s vochtige kleine appartement, gewelddadige vlek op de badkamertegel
een potje rode nagellak, lang geleden uit elkaar gespat, liet bloedstrepen achter.
Haar vieze slaapkamer waar ik nachtenlang achter elkaar sliep, al was mijn
appartement dichtbij, schoner –
ik kan ze me niet voorstellen, de gedichten die de harten van goden weker
maakten, de gedichten die iets veranderden.
De eerste sigaret die ik accepteerde, het metaal van de vluchttrap tegen mijn blote benen,
waar ze me toestond het hele verhaal te vertellen
zonder de echte woorden te gebruiken. De nacht koelde af en bracht dichter bij elkaar.
De manier waarop niets echt schoon aanvoelt
in de zomer. En alles wat ik over Eurydice weet
is dat ze stierf. Alle andere feiten die ik over haar ken, gaan over hem.
Publisher: 2022, ,
ORPHEUS
Mold blooms on the yogurt, furring the edge
in ancient colors. My body is something I have worn
for other people. Even five years ago
I would not recognize myself today, married, gallon bags
of animal bone and corncobs in the freezer to boil for stock.
I am far away from the cities of my girlhood, cool concrete
of their stairwells. The new therapist wants a list of compliments
I’d give myself on behalf of those who love me, and all I can come up with
is resourceful. For a time I believed myself in love with Orpheus,
which only meant I loved what I could make if I were free
from what happened to my body. That man who would never
touch me, kept distant and without danger by the barriers of fiction.
When I believed the work would save me. I have no real use now
for those Greek myths, their dead girls, women raped by men
and animals. Today the door is locked. Today nobody is outside.
Muscle cramping mid-lap in the dark blue water. Now I embroider
flowers in dim colors in my new country of flowers, clumsy stitches
through the stencil of an orchid, remembering my younger mouth
pressed to a flute, unable to release the breath. I’d liked that he was a musician,
fingers long as spring onions. As a child I ruined my sweaters,
the sleeves tugged down to cover my hand before touching
any doorknob or handling coins. Teenaged, loitering, urgently lonely.
The cotton t-shirts curling at their sliced hems. Now I am thick-fingered
and practical as my mother and her mother, smell of bleach against ceramic.
Gone is L’s humid little apartment, violent stain on the bathroom tile, a bottle of
crimson nailpolish shattered long ago and leaving streaks like blood.
Her dirty living room where I slept for nights on end, though my own apartment
was nearby, cleaner—
I can’t imagine them, the poems that softened the hearts of gods,
the poems that changed anything.
That first cigarette I accepted, metal of the fire escape against my bare legs,
where she allowed me to tell the entire story
without using the real words. The night cooling and gathered close.
The way nothing ever feels truly clean
in summer. And all I know about Eurydice
is that she died. My every other fact about her is about him.
From: The January Children
Publisher: University of Nebraska Press,
ORPHEUS
Mold blooms on the yogurt, furring the edge
in ancient colors. My body is something I have worn
for other people. Even five years ago
I would not recognize myself today, married, gallon bags
of animal bone and corncobs in the freezer to boil for stock.
I am far away from the cities of my girlhood, cool concrete
of their stairwells. The new therapist wants a list of compliments
I’d give myself on behalf of those who love me, and all I can come up with
is resourceful. For a time I believed myself in love with Orpheus,
which only meant I loved what I could make if I were free
from what happened to my body. That man who would never
touch me, kept distant and without danger by the barriers of fiction.
When I believed the work would save me. I have no real use now
for those Greek myths, their dead girls, women raped by men
and animals. Today the door is locked. Today nobody is outside.
Muscle cramping mid-lap in the dark blue water. Now I embroider
flowers in dim colors in my new country of flowers, clumsy stitches
through the stencil of an orchid, remembering my younger mouth
pressed to a flute, unable to release the breath. I’d liked that he was a musician,
fingers long as spring onions. As a child I ruined my sweaters,
the sleeves tugged down to cover my hand before touching
any doorknob or handling coins. Teenaged, loitering, urgently lonely.
The cotton t-shirts curling at their sliced hems. Now I am thick-fingered
and practical as my mother and her mother, smell of bleach against ceramic.
Gone is L’s humid little apartment, violent stain on the bathroom tile, a bottle of
crimson nailpolish shattered long ago and leaving streaks like blood.
Her dirty living room where I slept for nights on end, though my own apartment
was nearby, cleaner—
I can’t imagine them, the poems that softened the hearts of gods,
the poems that changed anything.
That first cigarette I accepted, metal of the fire escape against my bare legs,
where she allowed me to tell the entire story
without using the real words. The night cooling and gathered close.
The way nothing ever feels truly clean
in summer. And all I know about Eurydice
is that she died. My every other fact about her is about him.
ORPHEUS
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