Elegy

O Lord,
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,
celestial,
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.