each monday, just after ten in the morning, i took the train
past the red house, could see its kitchen window
the white frame, the curtain, sometimes the unwashed panes
reflected the sun. mostly i did not notice the light
or whether the kitchen window was open or shut
actually i never looked close, but i felt the house
come along for the rest of the ride: over wedding, westhafen, beussel street
over jungfernheide, westend, messe north, over westcross to
halensee, there i shook out my arms and splashed fresh
morning air on my face like cold water, it could go on like this
i thought then, and in fact it did. each monday
at noon i passed the house again
i never got off, but now and then i dared to look
and saw, as was to be expected, nothing. years later i watched
these videos all night: some people set up cameras
before they left their houses. their dogs ran
in circles, some gnawed at their paws, others rolled around
on beds, growled at pillows, howled in the hall, pricked their ears
at every noise. but some, and this was the worst, just
sat there. if there is anyone out there who sees all
and understands all, someone who can forgive, may he forgive me.
Translated from the German by Aimee Chor
Nadja Küchenmeister has published three books of poetry in German: Alle Lichter (All the lights), Unter dem Wacholder (Under the juniper), and Im Glasberg (In the glass mountain), all from Schoeffling. She has received many awards, most recently the Basel Poetry Prize.
Aimee Chor is a poet and translator in Seattle. Her translations have appeared or are forthcoming in The Paris Review, Circumference, Four Way Review, Annulet: A Journal of Poetics, and elsewhere.
Photo by Minna Autio on Unsplash