Remembering Gunnar

When I pronounce the word Future,

the first syllable already belongs to the past.

Wisława Szymborska

Svandís had never been one to look at the moon,

appreciate its lamp

as it rises

without fanfare.

As a girl, to her

the setting moon

looked like a painful yawn,

or the old man snoring in shadow.

But here, in her kitchen

overlooking the winter grass

and frozen lake,

the moon slides out of the earth,

as, she now believes, a chicken

must leave an egg.

And there is always a rising or setting

to hear her tell this story, too—

about how that evening ended.

In one,

her man says

he has bad luck.

But on good nights,

she lies back

and they melt the snow.

About the Author

Christopher Burawa is a poet and translator. He lives in Red Wing, Minnesota.