Portrait of a Felled Tree
I told him, today at seven in the morning. A
Tuesday scented with screwpine leaves. Tomorrow,
Wednesday. Yesterday, a jackfruit tree whose fruit
just grew in the hot season had an appointment
to meet Wednesday tomorrow morning. But my neighbor
says, this is Friday. I don't know whether
this is just a matter of a difference in grammar between
me and my neighbor. Of course there are traditions
between us, between
humans, like using chaos as a
way to organize ourselves. And surviving things that
don't make any sense. For example:
There used to be a family here, says the jackfruit
tree. You can see the traces of a gas stove,
sand that still holds the smell of your pillow, tears
that bind your books and make your dreams
into a frame that lets loose a portrait of me
on the edge of a Sunday.
___________________________
Document Shredding Machine
Afrizal Malna
translated by Daniel Owen
World Poetry 2024
