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[The word for magazine in my language: time writings]

I cautiously descend the stairs into myselfnot faltering but not sure-footed, either, not quite

I try being funny just to see what will happentry looking tired so I’ll be excused

I don’t get hungry anymore, and yet I eat all the timeone heaping plate after another

cautiously, descendscrutinizing each floor as if at an open house

I don’t need to renovatelazy by nature, I’ve yet to take the studded tires off the car and it’s mid-May

my knuckles are white 

I am not what I eatI am what I sleep

every morning, my daughter points to the living room windowand says: get the sun

I clink when I walkmy feet are piggy banks

what have I saved up?steps? love? saying what I want?

I want more timeand if these are the years that pass in a fogI also want as much comfort as possible 

in twenty years, I’ll emerge from the eartha mole in late middle age

and I won’t remember writing this poemwhile eating this apple

is this life? yes, this is life, growing larger and smaller in turndouble bags, half-circles under half-circles 

I no longer think in metaphorsmetaphors are a privilege

I’ve stopped releasing eggs, I’m stockpiling themto lob at judiciously chosen houseslike stones 

I punch all sorts of things into a little calculatorestimate the viability of my thoughtsestimate what freedom will cost  

what writing will costa clean house

in my language, the verb forbeing willing to spendis to time 

this is because time is our true currency

can I time twenty-four hours?can I time a week? can I time ten days?

I have a talent:I can always squeeze a bit more out of a tube of toothpaste

I wend my way down all manner of paths, tramp all manner of treadsreflect tranquility back to some people and childlike glee to others

chemistry is everythingchemistry is really the only thing I’m chasing

but why has my chemistry withtime changed? my rhythm mutated

Monday, Friday, Monday, Friday

ten years agoI almost broke my husband’s dick

since then, I haven’t gotten my rhythm back againthat way, on top

something happens, and we changewe sleep poorly, and we change

my eyes, two full moonsencircled by shining halos

I walk up stairs and downforget shopping bags in the middle of the sidewalk, drive away

put dirty clothes in, take clean clothes outwash this body every two days

I don’t time and my feet are piggy banks 

the laughing and the crying in my housesync up with the washing machine

I time not verbs anymore, hop from noun to noun

can’t tell you what I did yesterdayyesterday, ferryboat, the great fog

when I hit puberty, I became fixated withhow to have sex without being naked

nudity was an impossibility

I think about that a lot, wonderwhat will be possible later that is impossible now?

my body has stopped releasing eggsdoesn’t time them, energy-wise

they are piling up now, all in one beautiful raffia basketmonth after month

pretty soon, I’m going to cast them, like stonesat some judiciously chosen house

(Translated by Larissa Kyzer)

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Fríða Ísberg is an Icelandic author based in Reykjavík. Her books are the poetry collections Stretch Marks and Leather Jacket Weather, the short story collection Itch and her debut novel The Mark.

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