Anesthesia | Kinga Fabó
I thought: he’d clean me out. But he only vaporized me. Strained my colors. Crinkled them back. Inside the statue. Then came the odors. The badly installed roots. As corpus delicti. On the operating-table. I’m sterile. Famous outside. Empty inside. My auxiliary verbs are men with headdresses. His donation: railway tracks without smile; always ready for tragedy – strange, like a heartbeat – sin is only a decoration. I have no peace. I’m certain: I’ll take root somewhere. He is a professional. He wants me frozen.
Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics