 
            
			
Stanisław Barańczak, “Where Did I Wake Up” (transl. Clara Cavanagh)
Where did I wake up? where am I? Where’s
 my right side, where’s the left? where’s above, and
 where’s below? Take it easy, that’s my body
 on its back, that’s the hand I use
 to hold my fork, there’s the one I use
 to seize my knife or extend in greeting;
 beneath me are the sheet, mattress, and floor,
 above me are the quilt and ceiling; on my
 left the wall, the hall, the door, the milk bottle
 that stands outside the door, since on my right I see
 a window, and beyond that, dawn; under me
 a gulf of floors, the basement, in it jars of jam
 hermetically sealed for the winter;
 above me other floors, the attic, laundry
 hung on strings, a roof, TV
 antennae; further to the left, a street
 leads to the western suburbs, beyond them
 fields, roads, borders, rivers, ocean
 tides; on the right, already bathed in gray splotches
 of dawn, other streets, fields, highways, rivers,
 borders, frozen steppes and icy forests;
 below me, foundations, earth, the fiery abyss,
 above me clouds, the wind, a faint moon,
 fading stars, yes;
 relieved,
 he shuts his eyes again, his head at rest
 where the perpendiculars and planes all meet,
 pinned to every cross at once
 by the steady nails of his pounding heart. (...)