In Café Borges on Bankastræti
everyone has brown
eyes.
Here they once sold pantyhose–
says Simone–that forked like paths
in two, even three.
Yes–says Tiziano–lovers fought here
until someone laid a
sword
between them, naked.
Fires are burning.
In Café Borges on Bankastræti
everyone has stubble and a smile.
You have the widows and the widowers
who slurp soup spiced with Fáfnir’s-grass
and add in adages
with forks
that fork like pantyhose.
At a corner table a man in a turtleneck snores.
Up and down the hill the dead pass, patting the café wall.
I am married to the owner. We have four children..
© Sigurbjorg Þrastardottir. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2011 by T. Zachary Cotler. All rights reserved