Durs Grünbein

Strange, as a child he was always drawn to the inert.

In museums he’d stand for ages at the diorama,

its animals ranged in natural groups, stock-still

against the painted backdrops, forests, Himalayas.

Enchanted, as in a fairy tale, the deer pricked up

its ears as he edged closer in the neon, eyes shining.

In the skull of the caveman right next door he saw

only the gaping hole, couldn’t imagine the blow

of his rival’s club, the struggle for the fire.

The Egyptian mummy had lasted thousands of years
with its brain spooled out. Only with the melting
of the perma-ice had this mammoth come to light.
The most beautiful butterflies, big as your hand,
he found skewered with pins. Once he thought
he saw their wings still quivering—as if in memory
of the trees that had been felled, the tropical winds.
A draught, perhaps, had blown through the displays.

9

Now listen to this: in the obituary they wrote about me

In my lifetime, they said I was so sweet-natured

That they wanted to keep me as a pet.

It makes me ill to hear them drooling

About my loyalty, my affection, my trustworthiness around children.

Tripe! There’s a term for everything alien.

Looks as though time has caught up with me.

And my voice is swimming in the confession:

“I was half zombie, half enfant perdu …”

Perhaps eventually space gulped me down

Where the horizon closes up.

My double can look after me from here on in.

My orneriness is puked out, plus the question:

Do pets have lighter brains?