Frigoliti
When I switch off the light
in the afternoon
of the East Bedroom's summer,
the room acquires body and shape;
a light, hovering solidity,
as though the walls, wardrobe doors, table,
chair, bookshelf, window recess,
had all been fashioned from expanded polystyrene
This insanely weightless,
cut and tightly packed substance
emerges in the sparse daylight
filtering through the slit
left by the blanket I've hung
across the summer window's far too brutal
flood of photons,
and from the even fainter light
dwelling out in the upper hall,
where the bedroom door stands propped wide open
and dimly reveals the front half of a road bicycle
charging,
praline-parked in stately grandeur,
electricity trickling into the derailleur battery
like the Holy Spirit entering the disciples
on the first Pentecost
The ceiling lamp
and the reading lamp diagonally to the right
of my flesh-body,
propped against the pillows,
together bleach away the room's entire body
whenever they are lit,
flattening space,
making it stiff, two-dimensional
and uninteresting,
like a public restroom
at an ICA supermarket in Boden
under blinding tile-light
and disinfectant
I am one of those
who love the room's extinguished
foam-body;
light as a cat's daydream
in a thin whisper of smuggled daylight;
a light at the mercy of chance;
a mercy-light
granting this strangely satisfying
bodily wrapping
upon the horizon
of eventlessness,
with magical space
in which to be flesh;
a soft, silent comic-book universe
in collusion with every secretly benevolent weakness;
foamic magic
on the reverse side of a vacant world
that flattens
in sunlight,
and freezes.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-06-26 at 19:54
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