SZAR AZ ÉLET
by ágnes cserháti
on my desk this field of Lily of the Valley
where we’d always find you
as I do now
mother of Álmos (daughter)
the turul black like type and
táltos saying it was a dream
serifs like
dew clinging to the rim
of each white
bell shaped head
delicate and many
sounding like May though
I couldn’t say your name
so I gave you a name I could say
that everyone said the same way
and that’s what you became
szar az élet
though that wasn’t
the name I gave you
nothing like it
because what tore from your
mouth was much more than a life that
maybe wasn’t shit
all that long ago but
you’d forgotten and
could only guess your laughter
not knowing where
to put it
maybe in the espresso
gurgling on the stove
black so black it
seemed laughable
because your laugh was
radiant like a blade in Lake Balaton
not heavy and yellow
like the loaf and margarine
that made you sick but
was the only food you’d eat
till the end
(why?)
an ink I won’t print just now
because there’s more to say before
there’d be a point to
bleed you yellow
for saying there was no room
for me to stay with you—look
how you rowed the Danube
not a blister on
your hands only
the ones that
hardened your heart to
anyone who thought being
crucified meant to end their
suffering but not yours
even though he gave you
the crucifix he’d carved from
wood like he carved you
out of his heart (blood)
that you gave me (love)
that’s fixed above my bed
in a field of Lily of the Valley where
death isn’t shit where
I won’t let this
story end
where maybe
it won’t have to for much longer
Ágnes Cserháti’s poetry has won the Hart House Poetry Prize (University of Toronto) twice and has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Gwendolyn MacEwen Poetry Competition. Her writing has been published in Hart House Review, and online with Dodging the Rain, CatheXis Northwest Press, and The Esthetic Apostle. Her first chapbook, unremembered, was published with Frog Hollow Press in 2019. She is currently associate editor for the Alcuin Society's book arts journal, Amphora.
