Translating the Dead by Nancy Naomi Carlson

…………………………—for my mother (1923 – 2021)

You never felt as close

to the new shoveled earth as when,

echoed thud on wood still fresh

as the rending of ribbon pinned

over the heart, she left you

directives, like a trail of stones,

to guide the shiva.

But the days that follow fall

like smoke when the yahrzeit flame

dimmed, and January snow annulled

each hour of passing,

so all days revert to that Monday,

stuck in time like her last words

bottlenecked, mouth gaping

for one more breath.

It was enough to see her lips move,

like a silent movie actress heard

through the piano’s frantic flourishes,

cheeks shaping the air into gasps,

each breath made more palpable

than the last.

                        You replay the reel

of her life when gardenias bloomed

in her laughter, her lips an open book,

your own life unconceived.

With your own fingers you brush

her brushstrokes, listen before you sleep

and wake with nothing but context

to keep from drowning in this alien language.

Even the weather is foreign—wind

that expresses hungers hollowed—

need a knot in each gust revived.

Nancy Naomi Carlson, twice an NEA literature translation grant recipient, has published eleven titles (seven translated). An Infusion of Violets (Seagull, 2019) was called “new & noteworthy” by The New York Times. Her work has appeared in such journals as APR, The Georgia Review, The Paris Review, and Poetry. www.nancynaomicarlson.com