With permission from the publisher

WILDCARD

A light-hearted lullaby this, not much happens 
that doesn’t already happen somewhere else: 

a garnet-red baby opens wide its tiny jungle mouth. 
Familiar to all who read them, lullabies are 

about kisses, jealousies and parents / keepers. 
Raging in the pillow, rising like a statue made of ash. 

A parent is a house. Gooey goo-goo. Food, milk, 
lalala. A lullaby disentangles love. 

Be joyous and light touch. Filter light, 
the air is of an invaluable purity. 

Compared to wellbeing I daresay it’s cloud-cuckoo. 
Parents / moods / components of the growth machine: 

baby’s first, baby’s own, baby’s living it up. Joyous, 
carefree bellowing in a sun-drenched nursery. Done. 

Hearts plead, hearts steam: Adonai — 
give me back my stalemates, my singular days, my intact membranes.

ISLAND MOUNTAIN GLACIER, PART IV

Even when I, in this minute of my kingdom, in this household of seasons (jan steen), in this 
temple (breath), leave it all to you (here sweetie, for you) I elevate your thin meat to a spectacle. 

Even when I touch the memory of your hips, your hands tiger my uh-huh parts 
ingest me (tongue chest lips) and I read my gape from your lips or should that be gave.

Selections from the Appendix 

Appendix 

               Just like a poem, a translation emerges out of its own possibilities. It is built up of layers, alternate states that enter the work and flow through it. Options, possibilities, stabs, trials and errors, interpretations and choices are made, discarded, brought back, revived, knocked about, improved and transformed.
               I got to dissect and study Anne Vegter’s craft as I worked on these translations of her poems. This was a gift. More than a reader, a translator becomes the work’s mechanic. I dismantled each poem, uncovered its particulars, brilliance, magical flurries, flaws, oddities and the syntactical, semantic, sonic, rhythmic bones and muscles that hold it together. On my desk, the poems to be pulled apart, experimented on and reassembled in the new language. Like twins wearing different outfits and sporting different hairstyles, the original and the translation are intimately related yet distinctly separate entities. 
               Translations are like poems, a work in progress. It is nothing more complicated than that. And then, of course, it is. This appendix shares my process, isolating my choices and keeping the layers of possibility visible for the reader to create their own arrangements and, where necessary, to improve the translations. For I am but one of what I expect will be many more translators bringing Vegter’s writing to an English readership. 
               Astrid Alben, 2021

TRAMPS

You spoke of an emotional chill, below zero you said it was between 
my thighs in the departure lounge. After your bag we hugged heart to heart, 

I could’ve joyfully sucked you off. Are you even listening? 

We resembled wiry birds; you designed a deathblow on paper, 
had yourself a little after-fun with your boredom. It got tricky finding reasons that way. 

When the glass slips from your fingers you go find a cure for cracks and salt. 
The carpet grins. Will finally someone stand the fuck up and hold me?

TRAMPS

You talked about air temperature, below zero between my legs you said in the 
departure lounge. After your bag we hugged each other coeur à coeur, 

man I could have blown you I was so happy. Are you still listening. 

We reproduced rigid birds, a deathblow’s what you designed on paper 
had a little after-fun with your boredom. It became tricky to find reasons that way. 

When the glass jolts / jumps / leaps from your finger you look for a cure / remedy against cracks and salt. 
The carpet grins. Will finally someone stand the fuck up and hold me.

VAGABONDS

You talked about instinct-heat / emotion-temperature, you found it below zero in the 
departure lounge. After your bag we hugged each other coeur à coeur, 

happy as a lark ready to blow you. Are you still listening.

We faked / forged / imitated rigid birds, you designed a deathblow / deathly fall on paper 
had some after-fun with your boredom. It became tricky to find reasons [in] this way / method / manner. 

If the glass leaps from your finger you look for something / a cure against cracks and salt. 
The carpet / rug / runner smirks. Will someone stand the fuck up and hold me.

Astrid Alben is a poet, editor and translator. Her most recent collection is Plainspeak (Prototype, 2019) and Little Dead Rabbit (Prototype, 2022).