i am – not – am i
homage à inga sólveig
 
 
the ship of gold is roaming the sky
            in the closeness of distance
 
being there or here
             am i
out at sea looking at the sky
            or way up in the sky looking at the sea
                        in the grave or above
 
on a pedestal or
            definitely dead on the street
                        in  the gutter                            
                                   in the toilet
                                               under everybody's feet
 
 does it make a difference
 
who wept for me
             if i were wept for
 
does it make a difference
 
here or there
            the grave in the sea or from the sea
                        on a beach
                                   in a yard
                                               a graveyard
                                                           maybe
 
land ahead  or
            a glacier
                        death itself
                                   where there should be
                                               no life
                                                  
homeward bound with a shopping bag
            bang   
                        dead
                                   on the street
                                                                
life is deadly serious
                   unless death relieves you from it
 
 
          
inga solveig manages to frame everything in the aperture
            the eye capturing the moment
                        that perhaps never was
 
but could
            could have been
                        
in the sky
            at sea
                        in the air and the ocean
                                                           
in a garden
            a street
          
even in a most enticing dúsa-like dress
               
                                                                                
alone
  always alone
 
                                                  
 life and death have in common
            that one is alone
                        always alone

 
                                                                                      
Birna Þórðardóttir