Laura Wittner

Why we women get oven burns

It’s a little red mark—we’ve all got it.
Mine is on my left hand, the one I write with.
If I stare at my oven burn long enough
it unfolds into three above the radius:
my wrist goes three ways, other-dimensional
and if you squint you can see
my mother’s wrist, my grandmother’s wrist
and in a lurch forward, the wrist of
my daughter, mosquito-bitten, burnished and set
for the mark of the red hot grill.

*

Why it shouldn’t rain on Sunday nights

Thunder roars and my children are at their other house.
First a crack of thunder far away,
then another nearer by,
finally an earth-shattering groan
tearing through every empty room
and the only lit room, where
I’m at work late at night.
There’s thunder and
I don’t have anyone to comfort
which for a second feels like
not having anyone to comfort me. But no.
A mother recomposes herself quickly
even if her children are at their other house.

*

Williams and me

May there be no ideas but in things
but I filled the things with ideas—
now they are so taut
they turn to dust
if I lightly touch them with a finger.

*

Translation of the route

The silhouette of a stag leaping
surrounded by red fairy lights:
‘Beware:
a wonderful, elegant
deer may appear before you.’

The drawing in black
of the representation
of a snowflake
on a white background:
‘It may snow.
And we may all be an ice crystal
floating in emptiness.’

In 200 metres, a roundabout.

In 200 metres, a deception
whereby without wanting to
you exit the national route
towards the highway.

Rain in 200 metres.

In 500 metres, service area.
In 500 metres there will be sheep
sitting in the middle of the road
having already grazed.
Maybe.

In 500 metres you will begin suddenly
to pronounce Spanish
the way we do aquí
and not acá.

In 1000 metres,
if it rained, it would flood.
In the same place,
in certain months,
the pavement would be slippery.

In 1000 metres, exit
towards a village whose name
is in itself a fiction
a village of one hundred medieval houses
with no inhabitants visible
where you will drink
a coffee so perfect
sitting at a bar
that there will be no way
for you to forget the village
or its name
or its coffee.

And in 2000 metres
if you looked
you would see diagonal forests
a series of multiple greens
criss-crossing and free-falling
and forming valleys
and you wouldn’t be so sure
of whether the backdrop is made
of snowy peaks
or clouds
or your own idea
of what
happiness
is.
 

I. Ten real answers to fictional questions
Why we women get oven burns 8
Why on bad days we look at holiday photos 10
Why it shouldn’t rain on Sunday nights 12
Why we talk when we talk about love 14
Why it’s urgent to get out on the road 16
Why remedies over time betray us 18
Why it is advisable to read in bars 20
Why we must reconstruct ourselves all the time 22
Why when I like a song a lot I need to print the lyrics 24
Why if they knock me down a thousand times I get up 26

II. The imperfect is our paradise
Kayak 30
Love poem 32
To a god unknown 34
The taxi stops at the lights 36
Rothkos 38
Sunday noon 40
Shadow 42
Good morning, Kenneth 44
I wake up at 6 46
Month 48
Iguazú 50
Iguazú: says my daughter 52
You are here 54
To be in a museum 56
Reading DL on the 108 58
They zoom into photos in a chat 60
They walk seven blocks to the subway 62
They are blinded for a second whilst correcting a poem 64
They try out things on holiday 66
They make their voices vibrate at 6 68
They interrupt our talk to do something urgent 70
They peer into potted plants and confirm their beliefs 72

III. Translation of the route
Ma 76
Thursday, nighttime 78
I once again held a lemon in my hand 80
We turned onto Libertador 82
Dinner 84
The origin 86
What is that lovely book 88
The dark things 90
The fragile things 92
My daughter likes the wind 94
In front of the bay of San Juan in Puerto Rico 96
Clearing 98
Reminder from sanity 100
My baby 102
Down Loíza Road (with Mara and Nicole) 104
Scene 106
Late in the afternoon 108
Far from home 110
Williams and me 112
So much depends 114
How it is 116
My son tells me his dream on our way to school 118
When we travel, time expands: 120
Translation of the route 122

About the authors 126