Around the 9th of July
I lost track of what was real.
I responded, ‘I don’t know what happened.’
Something could have happened, I don’t remember.
Even then, what I remember is vague.
Shreds of ordinary things:
fur, muddy water,
knots in time.
When they pushed aside the cupboard
I saw the door behind it,
which didn’t fit –
the kickboard was warped.
Then I realised the photos
stuck together in a drawer
were not ones I had put there.
The handwriting didn’t look like mine.
I saw that behind the door
was another staircase and another door,
and behind that were the people
who lived in the cellar.
Turning back to the dark apartment,
the men in uniform gone,
she was standing as though she had been there
the whole time.
Had I done something wrong?
Had they done something wrong to me?
At the end of the corridor
swung the seventh
Translated by JL Williams & Robyn Marsack