Clearly!
When I am dead in the box,
what will I remember most?
How we stood hidden
in unlikely places around the house,
only to suddenly jump out and shout “boo!”,
high up in grumpy-old-man & granny ages?
How we always ate different kinds of breakfast
at different times?
How we competed to be the first
to suggest the day’s workout trip
on summer bikes or winter skis?
How she baked sourdough bread
three times a week,
and how intensely I enjoyed the smell?
How I sat up in my workroom
typing clusters of words into the computer,
that I had sketched lying on my back in the dawn-bed,
while she had long since been out at the stable?
How we loved each other even more calmly
and more strongly
after I began sleeping in my own bedroom
so as not to wake her
during two nightly rises to urinate?
How we both loved Bob Dylan,
but only I sound poetry, Breton hurdy-gurdy
and Om Kalsoum?
Yes — when I am dead in the box,
what will I remember best?
Clearly how we stood hidden
at the very first opportunity,
and jumped out shouting “boo!”
so that it echoed,
high up in the ages,
yes — as long as the ages lasted!
Clearly!
(when the dragging light lay bouncing
across the snow cover in February,
the sun’s eye bursting over the edge of the world)
(In death love is inedible
and light black as caries,
but otherwise there is not much to complain about
– and you are allowed to bring Herman Melville’s Moby Dick
or Walt Whitman’s complete poems
for entertainment)
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-02-11 at 10:12
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