Maja Lukic

After Morten Søndergaard

In Bergen, I run circles around the lake as the sun
skims tall trees and leaves me circling. I see my
fate in the flat lake. The thrust of summer light
into midnight is a fever, a beautiful allergy keeping
the town awake. Rain hits the gutters of the old
house, clatters like tiny rocks. Now I am nameless.
Now I am the heavy mist over green fjords slicking
all around me. I can be cold but not sad here. A man
wants to predict the age of my death but I’m awake
before I hear the number. The 5 a.m. sky is mottled.
The sun’s a white bruise, a patch of my skin. Bergen
sees itself in the black mirror of Bryggen. There are
homes on the hillside with closed eyes and closed doors—
you’re in one of them but I haven’t met you yet.