
Jørn Earl Otte
"Next time" -- April 18, National Poetry Month

Next time
Next time, I will be born
in a room overlooking the Nyhavn.
There will be no witnesses,
the flapping of flags in the Danish
summer wind shall be the only sound
my mother hears.
Sweaty sailors with hands
full of herring, warm beer
sloshing over edges of glass,
raucous and righteous hearty Viking laughter,
tourists click clicking yellow
and blue buildings
older than their country.
Sausages dripping with juices
of cucumber slices,
fried onions breaking
between crooked teeth,
red bricks, red paint,
red blood.
Next time, my first word
will be "mor," my second "far,"
my last, "farvel."
Next time, I will
never
utter
a single
word
in English.
Og hvis I kan ikke forstår mig,
fint. Jeg savner allerede mit næste liv.