My sick dad is a little knight and plays
with a red handled knife
he waves it like a saber moves it from hand to hand
a knife I say to say something and he looks at me like I’m a madwoman

ragged after the ritual fight he slumps onto his side and falls asleep
holding the knife upright
when he wakes the knife is the only thing supporting his right hand
his left hand holds onto air

the room smells of a cut apple
this smell threads our memory
someone teaches someone foreign words someone peels an apple for someone
then reads fairy tales

a friend from the past had brought a book
to kill time
but the book titled “Literature of the World” doesn’t fit his palm
it doesn’t shine
it isn’t red

I turn the pages at random
John Updike “Cunts” I read aloud to kill the silence
and dad looks at me as if I were an extraterrestrial

the old book splits in half
the belated present for a literary scholar friend
a man and amateur
bookbinder

neither of them knows any longer what cunts are and what spilled onto the pants
sex or mushroom sauce
the knife with the red handle is most important
it makes sense.


Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough and Teresa Cedar