Undercurrents by Monika Kostera

I dreamed of watching, together

with a blond childhood friend,

a train to Morocco passing by.

Its massive body was slowly crashing

through a small, modest room with net curtains.

Then it rolled away and the room

regathered, a gentle wind

in the curtains. A framed

calendar picture on the wall.

When I got up I found

Muninn’s black feather

on my bathroom sink,

a book lying face down

on the shelf. Everything

is riven now, even the clouds

are undecided. Only weeping and wine give

something like an afterimage of solace, fading

into the body; not really there, a hallucination

of relief. Everything is riven,

and God’s own little lockpick

has been called for.

Feel the bones within you taking flight –

this is only

the beginning.

..

(Sheffield, 2016)

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