Fragile Things

by Fríða Ísberg

wet paper
tangled in birch branches 

inside the window, smoking,
a woman with red hair

says to herself:
they can’t hear me anymore

irises
slip into the white
like burst egg yolks

the living room is heavy

on the carpet,
fragile things, scattered,

soaked in bile

she wraps them
cautiously
in old newspapers

and shoves them back
down her throat

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