THE JOURNEY

On this journey I believed with all my heart that I was Jesus
who had turned up here as your daughter.
I believed this and by myself gave rise to winter
with a hundred candles, I a Jew who observes the Sabbath.
But the pain in my chest reminds me of the trip
to Rochester, Minnesota, where my self was shipwrecked,
some parts never to be found again,
when we met the great lung doctors
with a short
reach.
 
The pain is because I haven’t learned a thing from what you did,
soon it will be my turn to lie down
and I won’t journey to Rochester, Minnesota.
 
Why haven’t I learned a thing
I ask and light a cigarette,
your days were short and mine will be too.
 
In the photo in my room you lie forever in the snow.
Out of your hand
smoke billows and billows.
 
 

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