Ada Limón
FORSYTHIA
FORSYTHIA
Rond de blokhut in Snug Hollow aan de McSwain Branch Creek, net lente, zijn alle dieren in de weer, en mijn geliefde en ik liggen in bed in een gedempte stilte. We praten erover dat we overal waar we heengaan zoveel mensen bij ons dragen, dat zelfs eenvoudig leven, deze onverdiende momenten, een eerbetoon zijn aan de doden. Allebei verwachten we een uil te horen als het donker dieper wordt. De hele middag lang, vanaf de veranda, hadden we zitten kijken hoe een roodflanktowie verwoed haar nest bouwde in de ongetemde forsythia waarvan het geel uitliep in de horizon. Ik vertelde hem hoe ik de naam forsythia onthield, dat toen mijn stiefmoeder Cynthia stervende was, die laatste week, ze volkomen helder, maar raadselachtig zei: Meer geel. En ik dacht, ja, meer geel en knikte omdat ik het met haar eens was. Natuurlijk, meer geel. En daarom zeg ik nu in mijn hoofd, als ik die gele kluwen zie: Voor Cynthia, voor Cynthia, forsythia, forsythia, meer geel. Het is nacht nu. En de uil komt uiteindelijk niet, alleen meer van de nacht en wat zich in de nacht herhaalt.
Publisher: 2023, Voor het eerst gepubliceerd op PoetryInternational.com,
FORSYTHIA
At the cabin in Snug Hollow near McSwain Branch creek, just spring, all the animals are out, and my beloved and I are lying in bed in a soft silence. We are talking about how we carry so many people with us wherever we go, how even simple living, these unearned moments, are a tribute to the dead. We are both expecting to hear an owl as the night deepens. All afternoon, from the porch, we watched an Eastern towhee furiously build her nest in the untamed forsythia with its yellow spilling out into the horizon. I told him that the way I remember the name forsythia is that when my stepmother, Cynthia, was dying, that last week, she said lucidly, but mysteriously, More yellow. And I thought yes, more yellow and nodded because I agreed. Of course, more yellow. And so now in my head, when I see that yellow tangle, I say, For Cynthia, for Cynthia, forsythia, forsythia, more yellow. It is night now. And the owl never comes, only more of night and what repeats in the night.
From: The Hurting Kind
Publisher: Milkweed Editions,
FORSYTHIA
At the cabin in Snug Hollow near McSwain Branch creek, just spring, all the animals are out, and my beloved and I are lying in bed in a soft silence. We are talking about how we carry so many people with us wherever we go, how even simple living, these unearned moments, are a tribute to the dead. We are both expecting to hear an owl as the night deepens. All afternoon, from the porch, we watched an Eastern towhee furiously build her nest in the untamed forsythia with its yellow spilling out into the horizon. I told him that the way I remember the name forsythia is that when my stepmother, Cynthia, was dying, that last week, she said lucidly, but mysteriously, More yellow. And I thought yes, more yellow and nodded because I agreed. Of course, more yellow. And so now in my head, when I see that yellow tangle, I say, For Cynthia, for Cynthia, forsythia, forsythia, more yellow. It is night now. And the owl never comes, only more of night and what repeats in the night.
FORSYTHIA
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