In The Village

In The Village Marie-Andrée Gill (bio) Translated by Nathalie Harty (bio) Keywords poetry, Marie-Andrée Gill, translation, Nathalie Harty, lifestyle, village, love, progression, technology Translated from French by Nathalie Harty In the village we let the nail go deep into the foot until picking up tetanus likea surprise. We watch each other live, we turn to see every car that passes: it'swinter's fierce dance as it wraps us in its cure for lethargy. I don't know what it will take to be strong enough, with bedroom wi-fi neededhalf the time to know how to look at the earth's stark naked body. In the village, on average days, I show up at someone's house, a house whereyou just go in without knocking. And with my storm gear hanging inside andout, I let loose with the same call that everyone lets loose with under the samecircumstances, I sing to them: "Got any beer here, got any beer here, if there's no beer here, I'm getting thehell out of here" From then onI stop thinkingabout anything at all. In the village, there is always something, somewhere to try your patience. Wefollow animal tracks all the way to the cell tower. We share silence, then atnight the full moon brings us apocalyptic dreams. In the village, I've heard that it's because we give kids too much sugar thatthey can predict storms. In the village, TV makes us forget the displeasurewe no longer know how to read anything except the accidentsin convenience store newspapersthe nicest dresses on the red carpetLily Tomlin's state of healthJustin Bieber's new mansionthe lottery tickets we window-shop. [End Page 43] In the village, I ran into a girl from the farm roadshe tells me she can't have childrenand yesterday she stuffed herself with a steak.Good thing I got up slowly and miraculously this morningto confront the rows of limp vegetables at IGA. In the village we don't lock our doors. Anyway, if you do lock the door I hopethat it's not level,that one day there's still a tiny ray of lightthat lets me in while whistling the North windso that every time, I show up with a little soft snowunder your blanket. In the village there are days when I would like to writelove letters in 72 police Wingdingso that everyone can see themand that no one can grasphow stupid I am. There are days when I'd like to write your namewith the wet of the Zamboniat the arena flowing from my heart flowingthere where the dolphins keep jumping. In the village, on New Year's Eve we get dressed up. We go eat fondue with the finestpeople. Blowing snow has fallen better not break down I'm in a dress and no snowsuit.You skirt trees at night, you turn on a dime, branches in your face snow in your eyes:It's not with you that I'm going to get stuck. I told myself that would be a good title for something: He dances with snowmobiles. In the village, I only believe the scratches I gave you on your back.Our tongues are busy, carried away by a wave of whiskeyand our genitals flash in the trembling night. All over our animal skins: a drowned light. [End Page 44] I'll bring your skin home.The pony can go to bed.We won't be sleeping. In the village I wear my nice dress to go chop wood,sing tunes to the deergather the bark of the rest of my heartthe biggest part of which unraveled in the river. I dropped my liesfor a changehere coincidence scatterslike bustards can't get lost. I'd like to drive around,take a puff of your necksomewhere on main street,to feel alive for another winter. In the village the wounded animals of my silence are exposed,me...