by Hrafnhildur Þórhallsdóttir

In the dawn, my eyes
open
up.
Now, I choose to live.

Discern a low whine
life sign
in glistening
water. 

The air is clear,
goodness.

Under my feet,
the field.
In my palms,
the ax.

Now, I choose to live. 

And I know that you saw me
I heard you hear
and saw you see
me.

break the holy shrine
— when I was to break bread —
and break an oath
all oaths.

Saw me
when I lay,
disguised
to lead sight
away from myself. 

And now I choose to live.
The vision, simple:
Staves, of light.
White lines. 

And now I rest at night.
Plant what will grow,
no fear of the harvest.  

The soil is fertile.
The sky, steady.
I forgive myself. 

I choose to live. 

Translated by Meg Matich.

by Elías Knörr

The sailor melts on land
His tears
             of wine
                  conquer
       incomprehensible bodies

The offspring of the sea
                  wake up, wake up
and wake a will, forced on new shores
       in exotic voices
               stifling echoes

The sailor, aflood
His foam
       surges in new tongues 

Untitled poem, translated by Meg Matich.

by Elías Knörr

Queer mourners
rest beside the coffin
and fall asleep

natural though it might be
to simply say thanks and go home
no interest in further exchanges
                             after the ceremony

but they are so professionally
                                  and so exhaustingly
                                         sentimental

and yet,
no more servile
       than other workers 

the late customer needs closeness
and holds himself still as the grave

Translated by Meg Matich.
Originally appeared in EuropeNow journal.

by Elías Knörr

I invited the biologist into my back garden
he marveled at the lightbulbs
and took to dancing like a night moth

ye are naked
I see your secrets radiate
like orgasms
            he said 

ye are drunk I said

but not blind
            he said

and continued to examine me 

Untitled poem, translated by Meg Matich.
Originally appeared in EuropeNow journal.