Idiot

by Sigurbjörg Þrástardóttir

An idiot follows me around
every day, it makes faces and flycatches
cutlery,
climbs silently in my curtains, nobody
sees it but me

but without delay, to avoid any misunderstanding: I
love my idiot

But I hate it when it
sleeps
or mocks or even pantomimes me, ruthlessly, which
happens (a lot), but he’s muscular (note: this
is a male idiot) and he oozes
good looks and bodily graces — sometimes it’s like he’s
missing some teeth, his eyes are
empty

[nobody can fornicate with my
idiot (it feels nothing) but he can
have a quickie, but only with me
— that sounds unfair but works fine]

*
my idiot wears a white, well smudged,
17th century cotton tunic,
very loose
so you can eye the iridescent chest, nipples,
and his hair is short (yes, his is the
correct pronoun)

it is good to have
an idiot
when the days rive, when dreams
crack, when a young woman faces
unpassable problems,
peculiar choices —
then I look at my idiot, sitting on his haunches
in a tight corner,
grinning, flashing his gums,
rolling his eyes

I wouldn’t make it otherwise, without
his guidance, you know, support

he
anoints my feet with balm
when we are alone, parts my
shiny knees

*
I don’t know if many idiots
are mute, like mine (one stutters, another
rolls the rs . . . ) but
I’d never think of
complaining

he is the only one
who knows what sort of darkness I like to sleep in
and he’s
totally dependent on me for food

Edited by Meg Matich.
Translated by Sigurbjörg Þrástardóttir.