INGEBORG BACHMANN

Jointly used: seasons, books and music.

The keys, the tea cups, the breadbasket, sheets

and a bed.

A dowry of words, of gestures, brought along,

used, spent.

Social manners observed. Said. Done. And always

the hand extended.

With winter, a Vienna septet and with summer I’ve

been in love.

With maps, a mountain hut, with a beach and

a bed.

A cult filled with dates, promises made

as if irrevocable,

enthused about Something and pious before Nothing,

(—the folded newspapers, cold ashes, the slip of paper

with a jotted note)

fearless in religion, as the church was this bed.

From the seascape came my inexhaustible painting.

From the balcony, the people, my neighbors,

were there to be greeted.

By the fireplace, in safety, my hair had its most exceptional

color.

The doorbell ringing was the alarm for my joy.

It was not you I lost,

but the world.