Baklava

HENRIK NORDBRANDT TRANSLATED BY NADIA CHRISTENSEN BAKLAVA I feel uneasy in Athens, Istanbul, and also in Beirut. People there seem to know something about me which I never understood, something enticing and dangerous like the underwater trenches where we dove for amphorae last summer, a secret—half sensed in the street vendors' glances—which suddenly makes me aware of my skeleton. As if the gold coins the children stretch out toward me were stolen from my own grave last night. As if they had casually crushed every bone in my head to get at them. As if the cake I just ate were sweetened with my own blood. 58 ...