die reinste narretei

der verrat ist wie ein messer.
mit scharfer schneide gleitet
er glatt im rücken zwischen
die rippen und sticht das herz

keine luft will die lungen füllen
eine riesige faust windet ein-
geweide in gordischen knoten
voller angst und schmerz

ungläubig schaust du um dich
kannst dir nicht vorstellen was
diesen menschen bewegt — weißt
nur dein vertrauen war

die reinste narretei




©Beatrix Brockman

On Moving

It's a contemplative task
this moving of books from
one home to another. You
look onto their face, study
their back. Who will make
the cut? Who will need

good will? And in the new
room, in the new house, in
front of new shelves, you
wonder, too.  Your eye wants
to sort them by height and
color.  Your intellect cries

sacrilege. The alphabet is
no option either, which leaves
you with theme. And you start
feeling like a librarian without
call numbers as you sort books
by Theory or Shakespeare.

In the end,  you arrange them by
Suspicion, Dreams, or Modernity 
along the bifurcated lines of German
and English literature and old syllabi,
which funnily enough still sit
on dusty shelves behind your eyes.



© Beatrix Brockman