Aurélie Nemours
Untitled (La structure du silence)
1984
I
I'm telling the wrong lies,
they are not even useful.
The right lies would at least
be keys, they would open the door.
The door is closed, the chairs,
the tables, the steel bowl, myself
shaping bread in the kitchen, wait
outside it.
II
That was a lie also,
I could go in if I wanted to.
Whose house is this
we both live in
but neither of us owns
How can I be expected
to find my way around
I could go in if I wanted to,
that's not the point, I don't have time,
I should be doing something
other than you.
III
What do you want from me
you who walk towards me ove the long floor
your arms outstreched, your heart
luminous though the ribs
around your head a crown
of shining blood
This is your castle, this is your metal door,
these are your stairs, your
bones, you twist all possible
dimensions into your own
IV
Alternate version: you advance
through the grey streets of this house,
the walls crumble, the dishes
thaw, vines grow
on the softening refrigerator
I say, leave me
alone, this is my winter,
I will stay here if I choose
You will not listen
to resistance, you cover me
with flags, a dark red
season, you delete from me
all other colours
V
Don't let me do this to you,
you are not those other people,
you are yourself
Take off the signatures, the false
bodies, this love
which does not fit you
This is not a house, there are no doors,
get out while it is
open, while you still can
VI
If we make stories for each other
about what is in the room
we will never have to go in.
You say: my other wives
are in there, they are all
beautiful and happy, they love me, why
disturb them
I say: it is only
a cupboard, my collection
of enveloppes, my painted
eggs, my rings
In your pockets the thin women
hang on their hooks, dismembered
Around my neck I wear
the head of the beloved, pressed
in the metal retina like a picked flower.
VII
Should we go into it
together / If I go into it
with you I will never come out
If I wait outside I can salvage
this house or what is left
of it, I can keep
my candles, my dead uncles
my restrictions
but you will go
alone, either
way is loss
Tell me what it is for
In the room we will find nothing
In the room we will find each other
(publié dans la livraison de Novembre 1970 de POETRY ; je ne sais où ce poème a été repris.
Bon, il suffisait de chercher : repris dans Margaret Atwood, Selected Poems 1965-1975, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston 1976)
