Ida Linde

The years settle themselves like extra rings around the iris

and the sorrows alter the acuity of the pupil.

At the cementary the headstones stand to attention

for those who lived facing the sky.

It is me. I am the Machine Girl.

We are all going to die

but I will be the first to go.

I can bake bread. I read fast. I have a tattoo.

I have two questions:

1. What will you do with my dirty laundry?

Will someone pick up my panties

press them to their nose and say

”God how I miss the Machine Girl?”

2. What will you do with my perishables?

Can one drink a dead woman’s milk?

It is me. I am the Machine Girl

We are all going to die

but I will be the first to go.

Sören my brother goes to all the city’s football matches

and collects empty cans.

He went to Stockholm once

even if no one afterwards can understand how he did it.

”It was a good match that time in Stockholm”

Sören would say.

The red epicenter

sometimes burst across the eye.

Eventually the trees grow new rings around their trunks

the earth erodes

and yet anther farmer sells his lands.

”Times move quickly when poeple die”

says the help Samaritan before she goes into the kitchen.

I am the Machine Girl.

It was father who got Sören his job.

Sören would ignore the sign he had always

so carefully obeyed:

”Keep off the grass. Trespassers will be prohibited

from attending National Matches”

Sören would trace the beautiful white lines

confining the players and he looked me straight in the eyes and said

it is just like snow

and they have the same purpose.

It was the first time he walked across a football field.

His head sought out the well known metal

away from the grass.

The temple met the machine.

Father said his blood quickly poored over the sideline.

No football fields have pink lines.

He dies on a Sunday.

A tree falls over him for no apparent reason.

The football ref is dead

and no player wants to comment on his death in the paper.

Everyone knows that God did it.

My Father only lived by his grace.

She comes once a week.

We both know that she will be the one who finds me

and that is her job.

I could have gotten a job in the forest.

I who survived everyone

remember that I was born a motor cycle

that I was immortal

but that my oil was replaced with blood.

Do you hear the children trying to learn machine songs in the school yard?

Here all the papers are in order.

The best-by date of the perishables extends

a week ahead.

The clothes will go to the Salvation Army.

I have blunded my dirty panties

I putt hem here by the foot of my bed. Throw them away.

I will rise again

when the cog wheels are put in place.

I am the Machine.

And God with his big fingers glowing with oil

picks me apart. Bit by bit.

Cleans every nut and bolt.

Places them all on a white sheet.

I have to tell Father about my tattoo

because he will be the one identyfing me at the morgue.

”No that is not my daughter

because she has no tattoos”

and I will lie alone under the headstone.

The tattoo is of two trees

and a person whose back is turned towards them.

I have told my Father

that one will never experince

as many world cups

as one think during one’s life time.

The final’s ninety minutes plus over time

is nothing other than waiting for death.

I lie in bed

hear her arranging the milk in the refrigerator.

We seldom talk to one another.

I shoud tell her

that we are never so afraid of death

that we won’t die.

I took the cans. For seven days I returned

the cans for their deposit.

For the money I bought a present

that Coach Stig did not want.

Stig wanted to screw the Machine Girl

”To see what Death looks like”

and I thought death looked just like my brother Sören.

In exchange for intercourse all the players wear mourning bands

for my brother.

The home team wins with four goals to one

in the last match of the season.

My father is the football ref

who is always running around

with the red card in his hand.

A constant reminder to the players

that they are only playing by his grace.

When I am going to sleep I jungle words in my head

I have this in common with my Father.

But when I ask him to tell about the trees

he is silent

and I talk about the birch outside my window

that is taller than the house itself

and when I sit at the kitchen table the testament

snakes its way aound the trunk.

My father often talks about Gary Lineker.

A whole career without ever having had his name

on a red or yellow card.

I ask what Gary Lineker was so afraid of

but Father won’t answer.

His only son dead, his face become another

what has been waitng behind comes forward.

I saw a new vein on my fathers’ body

from the neck down

like a river delta across his chest.

The blood trying to find a way past the sorrow.

When the coffin is carried alongside the fields

the earth is lying face up.

At the funeral Father said

”Those who God love die young”

Sören’s voice is difficult to hear

like it is always snowing between him

and his surroundings.

When Coach Stig walks down the sideline

Sören cries out after him:

”Stig! Stigge! Stickan!”

Sören tells the woman next to him that

”Stig, he is a good guy”

and carries on with searching.

One of these days Sören will get deposit on all the cans

and get rich.

Then he will buy a present for Stig

because Stig does such a good job.