sadness frightens my gob into silence

THAT'S where I was gobsmacked, the point at which, if I were someone else,
I'd carry on unflustered without a flash of eyelash,
though in a wardrobe, and not alone but in the company of priests.
among the tracksuit bottoms, towels, gowns and negligées I'd feel
I could say anything, it would emerge from me still fresh,
as if some kind of fertilizer had been used on me.
the priests' budlike look would find me in the end
as would the lavender sachet thrown in, I'd curtsey at the edge
of the piled-up, ironed clothes, clear the nylons off
into the drawer for socks that as a joke we called
"the gutter of the damned". in that mall of unfamiliar winterwear,
the bering straits, priests would meet me and since it was summer
undo my straps, as lightly as dragonflies, and teach me a lesson
in fear, as something new that now somehow belonged there,
to a round of applause from the skipful of wrong-size woolies.
now we go over to a wardrobe elsewhere, and a tennis tournament to mark
the gob's reopening, with speeches, canapés and law students.

Monika Rinck * audio

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