”Did you bring a photo of your daughter?”
She asks, and in my mouth’s cavern more teeth are growing
To chew this very moment.
”Let’s have another cognac,” She raises
Her voice as if it were a scythe reaping wheat,
In order to bake words and slice bread
That even falls in love with the knife.
On the table marmalade slices are resting
Like leaves fallen onto the plate.
The real leaves hanging on trees in Krakow
Are wrapped in cellophane of mist
That came to sweeten the evening.
Translated by: Robert Manaster & Hana Inbar