Katerina Iliopoulou
Insomnia

Two wooden beds together
They say “twins” in English
Between them a stream
Motionless
At night she falls into it
She is microscopic
To reach him
She does such things
She tests herself
Practices surrendering
Then she withdraws
Drains herself of all traces of him
She falls asleep
With passion
With dedication
She becomes a thing of the night
She becomes a thing of the night not much different from the wooden furniture the curtains the cool wind and the lost horizon the glowing ship hanging from the sky and crossing it and crossing him too announcing its departure while this silent correspondent is left behind. He will have the privilege of entering his dreams holding them like an ice cube slowly melting leaving a slight burn in the middle of his palm. He will be exposed to the white movie passing by obliged to endure non-existent facts stories whose narrators get bored midstream testimonies whispered without a cause (but mercilessly). He will want to blow the dust away the dark veil the trembling sound of their persistence. Then he will get up to photograph the night. He will put his camera on the ledge he will adjust the lens and smoke and wait and the camera will click very quietly very subtly very secretly will steal every trace of light and bring it back like a hunting dog. And there the sky is blue, the grass is green and orange, the rocks whiter than any washed bone anyone has ever seen. Bone flowers that have just blossomed. He will cut them. He will dig a lair of sleep

Translated by Vassilis Manoussakis, Richard Pierce, and Edward Smallfield