She wonders why her nation’s men don’t look at her,
Mere laughing and don’t consider her,
It is because they are legends here,
For their large size in a cold land,
They see no need to pick that which can be picked at home,
So she sleeps on midsummer’s eve,
Seven flowers under her pillow,
Snapped three centimeters up from the earth,
By the neighboring girl in concrete block 209,
Given to her to put under her pillow,
Pillow of pickled herring,
Because she grasps her pillow too tight,
In hands that are washed over and over,
Dreaming upon a pillow of pickled herring with seven flowers underneath,
Will bring her a husband,
Who watches her feet,
And knows when to hit the sabar and when not to,
And is always a good man for swaggering down to the beach,
To pick a fine fish to be stewed in the manner of Dakar,
For something less than a kronor,
Peanuts replaces cream,
Atlantic where there once was the Baltic,
And a table dressed in indigo
