The Cow | Symphony | Selah

The Cow

My grandmother would

sometimes

tell us about

the cow in the basement

the warm body

in the darkness

beneath the bedroom

where they would sleep

her little sister and her

when they were girls

They could only catch glimpses

of the cow

between the cracks in the floor

and when their feet froze

at night

they would get out of bed

and stand in the stream of the animal’s warmth

or lie down flat

to talk to it

“Papa has pneumonia

he’s so tired from coughing

that he doesn’t have the strength to go fishing anymore”

“Muuuh” her eyes were glittering

black and melancholic

The family was big

nine children I think

and their house no more than a cottage

her father never did go

fishing again

my grandmother was eight

and she felt sorry for him

because he had to sleep in the graveyard

and it was so windy there

it would have been better

if he could have lain

near the cracks in the bedroom floor

so that the cow

could warm him up again

Grandmother held tight

to her little sister’s hand

and insisted

they all stay

together

in the cottage

in the village

but their father went

out into the wind to sleep

and her sister went

over the mountain

to live with relatives

she had red hair

a color on its way

away

away

and she didn’t come back

not until years later

not until she’d become someone else

a distant smile

a timid body

unfamiliar eyes

But the cow

stayed in the basement

didn’t it grandmother?

Yes I told it everything

and it kept me warm

What color was it grandmother?

Why didn’t I ever ask her that?

Wasn’t it dark red grandmother?

Symphony

And the rose garden in the Iceland Sea

have you heard of it?

a deep-sea jungle

of cold-water coral

branch after branch

it has been smashed to pieces

by the weight

of heavy trawl nets

and iron fishing hooks

the pieces drawn on deck

or washed ashore

thought to be something lifeless from the abyss

not organic wonders

the coelenterates

weren’t recognized

as architectural geniuses

calcium virtuosos

indispensable

like the woodwind players

in a symphony

the ecosystem

was not thought of as an orchestra

but now you can hear

that notes are missing

whole movements

the sound of bone ground to marrow

as all the instruments

are crushed and turned to white powder

and the last branches of the rose garden

collapse

storms boil

through

the gaps left

Selah

That moment when I see

one of my grandmothers

in my own face

and feel the other one

in my body

Selah

I think

of the burdens

they carried

all the milk pails

and washtubs

and creels of peat

how they would

churn

and wring

and knit

and carry children into the world

they would tear

without anesthesia

and knead

and scrub

and dig

so much work

and so little time

for them

to think

and educate themselves

Selah

All their struggles

were what saved me

the hard effort

they pitched

tents

on their gray

foreheads

and waved goodbye

to the past

all their waiting

for times of peace

for fishing boats lost out of sight

for a change in the weather

for a fever to break

the silence

they wore

dignity

every prayer

every contraction

every warm loaf

of fresh baked bread

steaming

on the kitchen table

a glorious monument

Selah

“Kúgvin,” “Symfoni,” and “Sela” from Karmageitin. Tórshavn: Ungu Føroyar, 2022.

Image by TK