if only I could rest in a mountain sanatorium
among pink and blue pills,
a sanatorium with a strong scent of fir trees
and soft carpets,
with coquettish, neurotic ladies
suffering from nice, small, conjugal conflicts.
If only I had a trauma like measles,
the pitter of a summer shower,
a neurosis like silk,
after which you are even more loved;
a neurosis like the steam of chamomile tea,
after which you’re even more dazed,
and then the tide of your femininity assaults the world,
cures it, gives it the thrills of a treasure known only to it.
If only I could find rest in all life’s scenarios,
in the diverse, simple, honest crannies
where there’s just a bed in which to sleep
and a bucket in which to vomit up
every last thing that, giving me,
you took away, o Lord,
to vomit up incessantly.