Burning Smell

by Fríða Ísberg

mom is turning into
an unanswered phone call

here are my limits
she says and chalks
a circle around herself

her embrace, once hot
now hardens

still, cinders slip
into her mail slot

often,
as if in tow

as if she herself bears the torch
that burns the bridge behind her 

mom barks into the phone
like a chained dog
forbidden from moving closer

and when she does
she wants nothing but to comb
your hair, hold your hand 

braid her long fingers
with your short ones 

she asks you to sing her song
howls it out of an open car window

laughs: we‘re not in tune

and she‘s right
you’re off-key

you can’t grow up fast enough
she can’t calm herself down

Translated by Fríða Ísberg and Meg Matich.
Originally appeared in EuropeNow journal.