Zoila Forss

Zoila Forss Unpublished poems Translations: Anne Ketola

[Suomeksi  [Español]

  Noughts and crosses   You, father, who are everywhere but stand nowhere, I tie your gaze to this three by three board. Three of paper by three of ink. Let’s play forgiveness. Today there’s no escape. The aurora is a boomerang that ran away from us yesterday, and arrives to my fist when the bet with the sun has been won. May the edge of this journal be the grid. May the nine boxes receive the hoops of your willfulness and the crosses of my loneliness. We play forgiveness, the one that weighs in my pocket, the one that annoys in your shoe. Two dimensions with a taste of old paper won’t define the end of the game. .Be the surviving wheat ear under the effervescent rain. I will be the flower of verbena in the revenge of the sun. I tell you, oblivion’s magma cannot melt us. Father, the house sings being free without being it and I plow its chest to make room to a seed not yet named. Three by three board, a circle for a cross. Smoke rings escape from your mouth and the windmill of my index catches them. Ink and paper without truce or excuse.
  Perhaps it’s the same Linked by love, bound by hate. Sailor of mine, you strand or rise up. Perhaps it’s the same. Caramelized blindness, delicious deafness. Asthmatic life blows, Unknown death scorches. Perhaps it’s the same. Tied to be untied, dead of love in the same grave. With no headstone, but with memory. Born on all fours or hustled out. Perhaps it’s the same. I’ve swiped off the shore from you, and out of envy I steal all the hidden sand from your feet. And out of apathy I let your torso go cold. Perhaps it’s the same. We are an interrupted concert. Sitar and violin, guitar and cajon, isolated by the contempt, united by the excuse. Perhaps it’s the same. We are an interrupted agenda under an unknown regiment. It was my turn to be the absent ocean, it was your turn to be the lost sailor. Perhaps is the same. I am a sea dying of love in your shut mouth. And its white soldiers invade me, they stain my roar, they discolor your moan. Perhaps it’s the same. Onion’s brine, your cascade of knifes has opened my eyes, and has fenced yours with wire. Perhaps it’s the same.