Anxiety I
by Tove Ditlevsen tr. Cynthia Graae and Michael Goldman
Anxiety is old it reeks of childhood it has no object is awakened by glances, words and sudden noise lives in recurring dreams where the one you love shows the deadly hatred he hides by day.
People’s eyes are yellow they are too close together and they have no lashes over them their menacing eyebrows run endlessly together the corners of their mouths dislocate and twist, watercolor-wet do not look at them slip away from any dangerous and keen attention.
Wrap yourself in rhythms and rhymes from the old bygone songs hide with the troll and the dragon the pure evil shy away from all affection even from the child who plays with and caresses the cat shy away from his expectation his memories his blocked future.
Seek the company of those who peacefully turned away want nothing from you libraries waiting rooms railway stations people with suitcases in hand have firm contours unknown goals in a world that is not yours.
All the others are transformed under your stare as if under windswept waves they know that you see their secrets and innermost thoughts hate your lurking and waiting you do not know the day of the catastrophe approaching by the hour.
Anxiety is old your father and your mother are safety and danger staring through your lover’s eyes and are not dead. Do not watch them. Lay flowers on the grave light candles at night fold your hands and hum in devotional horror the old forgotten songs.
