Réka Nyitrai


Goodbye

Goodbye arrives uninvited. It looks weary, moody and somewhat unkept. I find it sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table, sipping coffee from my favorite mug. It has the air of an unwelcome mother-in-law, determined to stay put. Suddenly, every object in the kitchen feels stained. On one of the windowpanes I notice the husk of a flattened mosquito. The curtains are heavy with dust. On the tablecloth there are tiny breadcrumbs and some spilled salt. When, that evening, I step out into the night with one small suitcase in my hand it suddenly dawns on me that I have left my lover without so much as a goodbye.



The book of love

A man leans back and falls into his wife’s body. He falls and falls as if he is tumbling down into a well. He expects to see nothing but darkness so he is utterly surprised when he notices that his wife’s body is illuminated from within, as if it is a vase filled with fireflies. When he finally strikes the very bottom of his wife’s body he notices a lectern and a lamp. On the lectern there is a book named “The book of love”. He opens the book and reads, “In time one becomes what he loves”.



Heart flutter

I go to the hospital and discover that my heart is inhabited by a family of sparrows: a male, a female and four hatchlings. They have built their nest in the depression of my left atrium. The X rays clearly show a large nest built of stiff dead twigs. Twig nests withstand heavy downpours more effectively and are also a better defense against predators – or so the doctors tell me. I learn that the male sparrow leaves the nest at dawn and spends its mornings outside of my heart, foraging. Usually, he returns by midday. My heart palpitations occur, for the most part, around midday. The doctors explain that when the female sparrow and the hatchlings are much worried for the safety of the head of the family, their agitation is transferred to me. The shivering of their wings can be heard through a stethoscope. When the female and the hatchlings are particularly fearful I might feel dizzy or even faint. Furthermore, doctors warn me that, if insects are in short supply, I might begin to lose weight.



The sparrow

I was going to write a poem about the names my former lovers called me when a sparrow, perched behind my bench, made the following announcement:

“If you want your poems to stand the test of time you must write them on fallen leaves” — it said and flew away.

I remained there, pecking at my feathers, pondering the color of the rising wind. I remembered that the old haiku masters thought that the wind must be white, but for me it is invariably yellow.

“Death is yellow” — said the sparrow.



Waking up as a flower vase

Some day you may wake up and find that you've become a flower vase. You are in a living room on a shelf, surrounded by piles of books and various decorative items: an hourglass, a brass trinket box, a framed photograph. Then a cat comes along, not just any old cat, but one with a deep hunger for its owner’s attention. And, that very second, it knocks you off the shelf and you’re there once again on the Persian carpet, shattered, just like you were when your last boyfriend left you. The only difference is that now your tears flow inwards.



Réka Nyitrai is a spell, a sparrow, a lioness's tongue — a bird nest in a pool of dusk. She is the recipient of a Touchstone Distinguished Books Award for 2020 for her debut haiku volume While Dreaming Your Dreams (Valencia Spain: Mono Ya Mono Books, 2020).

 
 

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