Jyrki Kiiskinen (Finland)
Translated by Anselm Hollo
[The man in charge . . . ]
The man in charge of throwing water on the sauna stones runs a
fingernail across his temporal fossa, that's where death passed him
by in the war. One no longer hear such tales. My son does not see
missing legs, tissues torn by shrapnel. bones shattered by a bullet.
He does not know about men who crawl out of frozen stacks of corpses
into the sauna at the public baths. He ogles cleanly drawn calves,
foamy corpulent rococo figures in the shower. I hear the booming in
the washing-up room, from a distance within reach of artillery,
that's where young men engaged in the long continuation war, threw
water on the heated stones, ever more water on the heated stones.
The devil breathed ice, walked past close by. Where does he wash up
now? How does he dress before he goes out on the town?
[A row of coats . . . ]
A row of coats hangs behind a curtain my hand
wanders blindly
into overcoat pockets looks for chewed pencils and paper clips
finds a purse bad hand it loves weights
thus is attached to coins even though it knows that power does not
weigh much
the hand labours in a precisely weighed relation
to the wallet's contents and the owner does not notice
anything bronze nickel
purple bank note mountains rustle between hands
the hand examines candy boxes shoes and love letters
it scans bank records chests of drawers and panties
vases and sink pipes penetrates the depths of closets
struggles underneath rubber bands spreads out anatomical charts
rolled up solar systems that caused people to be burned sometimes
finally it finds the illustrated magazine under a pile promising
colour pictures
the hand turns pages hoping for breasts and thighs
but freezes in the middle of the page-turning sequence of images
of a village road burning buildings soggy fields
entangled bodies sprinters surprised by mud immobile
pigs and children on the wayside guts like streamers
at birthday celebrations women in the pictures elastic bronze
artful flesh arrangements of thighs and breasts
rotten fruit by the wayside hands
clutching temples holding a baby
exuberant buttocks protect the child from bullets the child
riddled by bullets in whose body blood blooms like on the field
the waste water rolls like a wave onto the mouth behind the teeth
the mass murder's witness gazes at his deepest interior
one match after another lit between shaky fingers
I don't shut my mouth or mass grave I don't fear the curse
I do not drip blood soup onto the clinkers my face does not flow
off my head with the red gunk I am not a victim I won't remain
silent
I don't flee to the neighbour do not wait for a chance to avenge I
am a free hand
moving on across years fumbling in the dark to find
what it looks for stroking the belly the hair the mouth that
whimpers