Moa Martinson Revisits the Garden by Hannah Brydges (Sweden, 19)

for thirty years,
i’ve noticed a ritual
    around the fine
        silk nightgowns i fold
with precision and the
     sullied, red fevers of
   blood moons

​three times a year now,
i let myself slip from
    the sick air of
            sleeping children
   and fall silent
            – a lost pilgrim
swallowed by night,
choking on lilacs

(från månsken kan kvinnor gro)

i breathe only by the
    apple trees, fingers
        bathed in
redness – trickling, slowly
    down the first
           scar from my first
       born son, still

​god, i beg of you:
undo the sin of mother eve.

i feel it under my
      fingernails as i tie ribbons
    into the braids of
  my daughters;
            a sour breath down my
neck when husband
    returns home

yes, i may seem domesticated
but mother danced herself wild

was that her punishment?
     for wanting a touch,
      a child or a little
bit of blood?
       an echo, her face greets me
    in the mirror

(så vacker att klockorna stannar)

or am i the one to blame for
  cherry-liquor rotting
       in the dry
dry summer mouths
of men?

for picking up the pen?

for having conceived
          a vision of myself,
long before he painted
        flesh with
          nightshade and
     violets?

(kära mor, dina fotspår var för djupa)

nowadays, i pour into pages
        the runic script of
stomachs i’ve seen;
        on paper, a hymn lingers
     ancient as silence,
lit by kerosene

i eat apples with my women,
    cheeks red like russian dolls

any snake
  in      my garden,
i behead with a shovel.




​Hannah Brydges is a 19-year-old writer from Stockholm, Sweden. Besides writing poetry, her interests include dancing, bouldering and listening to folk rock. You will most likely find her wandering the forest in a white dress. This is her debut poetry publication. ​