Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Maria do Rosário Pedreira

ANKLES

In the end it was thirst that got me
off the street. Into a café, serendipitous,
orange nappa chairs
bordering an almost-empty bar.

A teenage couple crowded
in a corner so they could speak
face-to-face. The boy – the more

attractive of the two – had a drop
of sweat dancing down his brow, a sign
that a difficult discussion lay

ahead. But then again, her ankles
were so weak that surely they couldn’t
withstand any type of confession. I gulped

my ice water so as not to disturb
her crying; and, before leaving, found
myself thinking that I wouldn’t

even mind being cheated on, if
I could be that age again.

ENKELS

Ik was omdat ik dorst had onderweg
gestopt. Voor een dorpscafé, waar
krukken met een oranje bekleding van
kunstleer rond een bijna lege bar stonden.

Op de hoek, om beter oog in oog met 
elkaar te kunnen praten, zat een jong
stel. Op het voorhoofd van hem – die

de knapste van de twee was – parelde
een zweetdruppel, eentje maar, als teken
dat er iets moeilijks moest worden

uitgepraat. Maar haar enkels, zag ik,
waren zo dun dat ze die bekentenis
nooit zouden kunnen dragen. Ik dronk

snel mijn glas ijskoud water op om 
haar huilen niet te verstoren; en bij
de deur betrapte ik me op de gedachte

dat het me niet kon schelen om bedrogen te
worden als ik opnieuw zo jong zou kunnen zijn.

TORNOZELOS

Foi na verdade a sede que me tirou
da estrada. Num café de província,
cadeiras de napa cor de laranja
bordavam um balcão quase vazio.

Numa esquina, para poder falar
olhos nos olhos, sentava-se um casal
adolescente. Na testa dele – que 

era dos dois o mais bonito – bailava
sozinha uma pérola de suor, sinal
de que haveria coisas difíceis para

dizer. Mas, vendo bem, os tornozelos
dela eram tão finos que não iam
aguentar aquela confissão. Bebi

correndo a minha água gelada para
não atrapalhar o choro dela; e, antes
de sair, dei comigo a pensar que nem

me importaria muito de ser traída, se
pudesse ter outra vez aquela idade.

Close

ANKLES

In the end it was thirst that got me
off the street. Into a café, serendipitous,
orange nappa chairs
bordering an almost-empty bar.

A teenage couple crowded
in a corner so they could speak
face-to-face. The boy – the more

attractive of the two – had a drop
of sweat dancing down his brow, a sign
that a difficult discussion lay

ahead. But then again, her ankles
were so weak that surely they couldn’t
withstand any type of confession. I gulped

my ice water so as not to disturb
her crying; and, before leaving, found
myself thinking that I wouldn’t

even mind being cheated on, if
I could be that age again.

ANKLES

In the end it was thirst that got me
off the street. Into a café, serendipitous,
orange nappa chairs
bordering an almost-empty bar.

A teenage couple crowded
in a corner so they could speak
face-to-face. The boy – the more

attractive of the two – had a drop
of sweat dancing down his brow, a sign
that a difficult discussion lay

ahead. But then again, her ankles
were so weak that surely they couldn’t
withstand any type of confession. I gulped

my ice water so as not to disturb
her crying; and, before leaving, found
myself thinking that I wouldn’t

even mind being cheated on, if
I could be that age again.

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère