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

May 2026 Poetry Feature: Arielle Hebert, from Bottom Feeders

ARIELLE HEBERT
Home again at the water’s edge, / palms dancing in salt breeze. / I take a too-deep breath / and the air prickles my lungs / like an unfiltered cigarette. / Only the tourists are swimming, / coughing through the algal bloom, / eyes bloodshot and skin burning.

Book cover of Cece

Review of Cécé by by Emmelie Prophète

SAM SPRATFORD
Uncle Frédo lies in the dark, water dripping through the sheet-metal roof. His American Dream crushed by the reality of existence as a non-white, non-citizen in the U.S., he returns to Haiti for the remainder of his life. He rarely speaks and is nearly always drunk. He spends his days in a dreamless twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness.

Opening ceremony from Calgary Olympics

How to Cry in Public Places

EMILIA DŁUŻEWSKA
This is not a book about making lemonade from the lemons life gives you. It’s closer to the story of my friend who, suffering from a rare and incurable illness, gradually lost control of his body, including his vocal cords. The day we met, he could only whisper.