Crash

By Katrine Marie Guldager

Window

I recognise only half of what should be my life: The weeks cut into my skin like a net I only can see through for moments. I get up and lurch out into the streets high as a kite, trip over a seagull´s cry and call it mine. I fling my arms wide and let 7 equal 5: My memory is like windows in springtime flaking and flaking off, what I remember, like the rotten frames slowly pulling away from one another.

Translated by Barbara Haveland