Conceived on a mattress made of human hair.
Gerda. Erika. Maybe Margarete.
She doesn’t know, no, not a thing about it.
This kind of knowledge isn’t suited
to being passed on or absorbed.
The Greek Furies were too righteous.
Their birdy excess would rub us the wrong way.
Irma. Brigitte. Maybe Frederika.
She’s twenty-two, perhaps a little older.
She knows the three languages that all travelers need.
The company she works for plans to export
the finest mattresses, synthetic fiber only.
Trade brings nations closer.
Berta. Ulrike. Maybe Hildegard.
Not beautiful perhaps, but tall and slim.
Cheeks, neck, breasts, thighs, belly
in full bloom now, shiny and new.
Blissfully barefoot on Europe’s beaches,
she unbraids her bright hair, right down to her knees.
My advice: don’t cut it (her hairdresser says);
once you have, it’ll never grow back so thick.
Trust me.
It’s been proved
tausend- und tausendmal.