Aura (II)
I do not see much,
I am having a migraine attack; a powerful aura, jagged,
arching, estranging;
I see indistinctly & in fragments the text I rasp out
from a numbed position
up beneath the ceiling; my arms long seaweed below me,
the pen maneuvered as if with a wheel loader’s grappling bucket,
the torque converter in blind obedience
as I lie there, comfortably,
beneath my heavy Indian blanket
that grants me the care of an entire subcontinent
as the world heels
– and I am wearing the wool sweater Anna knitted
heavy & dense,
embracing me
with Iceland’s rugged history
and all the honesty of time
while the literature program with Helen Granström
on P1 builds patterns in spatial perception,
as in a lucid dream
I lie smoldering in something alive
seen from an indeterminate place in existence
The wall clock passes by, leaning slightly forward,
with hat & cane,
like Leonard Cohen
The awakening is a tender angel
that lays its wing across my back
and comforts me silently, in Mother’s voice:
”Now it’s alright, Ingvar”
The Indian blanket draws close around me;
takes care of me in a gentle alap
of rest & healing
Time is a Shakespearean theatre around me
as I return down into the body,
and discover Maria Kovalenko up on the stage
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-04-29 at 10:28
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