Krista Ingebretson’s translations have appeared in BOMB, ecopoetics, and Denver Quarterly, among other publications. She works in publishing and lives in Brooklyn.
The sound reverberated in my sense of what was right and reliable in the world like drone weaponry, and what I wanted to ask was: what business have you left undone, and did you do a thing you so regretted that you can’t let go of it, was there a person you cut off, when sympathy would have been the better gesture, was there a person you trod on to get ahead in your sales job, speaking ill of them, so that they were forever harmed, did you say something awful about a friend in school, did you call a friend the worst of names in middle school, because it was a thing they said then, the boys did that, only to find, later on, that you loved that boy in a way . . . .
To my beloved sense of security, it’s your perimeter that draws its corners like a belt when it comes down to eating frozen foods out of the ground, each unenvelopment a finer slice of skin, hooped up inside a shuffle to which turns quicken around the other way, like Artaud said about dead bolts, skull-clangor, that rings out.