I Had Seven Hankerchiefs

 
Translated by DENIS HIRSON

 

 
I had seven handkerchiefs
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday

 

 
My mother put them away
in a drawer
between her own
and those of my father
mine were embroidered
with animals for each day
and week
and night
and the night after
one colour per day
Monday red Tuesday green Wednesday blue
Thursday black Friday yellow Saturday grey
and Sunday golden
you have your handkerchief
my mother explained to me
knotted at all four corners to cover your head
one knot in the corner
for you to remember
and then you can cry
and sometimes blow your nose
and when you leave
you can wave us goodbye

 

 
 
Sylvie Durbec’s recent publications include Marseille: éclats et quartiers (Marseille, fragments and quarters), which won the prestigious Jean Follain Prize of the City of Saint-Lô; Sanpatri (Nohomeland); Soutine; and L’idiot(e) devant la peinture (Idiot/I look at paintings). 

 

 
Denis Hirson was brought up in South Africa and lives just outside Paris, France; he teaches at the École Polytechnique. The latest of his seven books is the novel The Dancing and the Death on Lemon Street. He is also the editor of the 2014 anthology In the Heat of Shadows, South African poetry 1996–2013.

 

 
 

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

I Had Seven Hankerchiefs

Related Posts

The Messengers

ZHU YUE
I am sitting before her. Like always, she is pale as a sheet and expressionless. Her appearance is as strange as ever, eyes veiled by curtains of hair. She must be an unfortunate woman, as much as I am an unfortunate man. She sips her hot tea. I, too, bring my cup to my lips.

Headshot of Brionne Janae

September 2026 Poetry Feature

BRIONNE JANAE
did you keep your mind? / you got to walk it for yourself / and on returning what state did you find it in? / as in what state were you in? / were you where you left yourself? / and who was left? / was anyone left? / and how sure were you that you could reach them?

dark rock formation

Chupacabra

RODRIGO URQUIOLA FLORES
We are memory and to remember is to search the intricate silence of the images left behind. But we are also animals with a voice, and the voice gets bored of speaking alone and so becomes the game and the game becomes the celebration – joy as celebration of victory