poetry

Andrea Kenkmann

 Winter 2001




Thank You and Goodbye

You are lying on the bed,
intoxicated by pints of lager and
the sleeping tablets I dissolved in them.
I peel you into nakedness;
your regular breath is the rhythm to my movements.

My birthday present in the drawer is still in its plastic box;
I tear it open, plug it in, switch it on --
a swarm of bees singing quietly and dancing around me.
Your left leg looks inviting and I discover
that it is easy,
up and down like mowing the lawn;
the right leg,
then I lift your left arm --

the stale smell of a day's work slightly distracts me
from my task of glory;
the right arm,
a quick whiz around your nipples just for fun,
and then I move down over your navel into your crotch
and I love the bzzz.
The proximity of my hand stiffens the centre
and makes moving around it more easy.
There, it's done! Now you can sleep like a baby.
You said you didn't like hair and
I'd better go now.


Still-life

Toes don't make it into the picture,
'It's better that way', she thinks,
lying like a plucked chicken in front of the stove,
the feathers piled onto an armchair.
A two-dimensional stillness is created
by his pointed brush, the line
of ancestors continued on both sides.

The unsuccessful burial

Mother's friend was 17, young
and went to church on Sunday,
'Hallelujah' sang the choir,
when the water broke they stopped,
whispered prayers as they called them.

Mother's friend has lost her age
in a battle to keep quiet, quiet.
Even now she's older,
voices hushed, the choir sings.

I was 15, young
and went to church on Sunday,
'Hallelujah' sang the choir,
I joined in, the echo
palpable today.


To the Chubby Ones

I'm sitting on a hard wooden bench
and looking down my tracksuit-trousered legs.
No, that wasn't my name;
mine won't come up for a while.
Friendship that still existed an hour ago
is suddenly broken.
And when my name suddenly comes up
a horrified grimace accompanies it.
Oh how I long for the one-two-three teacher.
One, two, three, one, two, three, one...
If I ended up as a two
the two's would probably lose,
yet it would spare me the solitary end seat.

If I'm lucky they put me on the bench
and I can look down my tracksuit-trousered legs
dreaming of burning the teacher with the glow of my cheeks,
of burning them all.
Week after week, month after month, year after year
me with my tracksuit-trousered legs in despair.
Faster, faster, catch the ball,
fucking ball to big to catch,
faster, faster, always faster,
breathless, sweating, dropped the ball,
shouting all around me,...
Time over.



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