hikes up in one fluid motion
and only after releasing does
the tight linen crosshatch
register the catastrophy of
fingertips ridged inexplicable
in whorls of history minute
yet inaccessible beyond the pull
and sigh shaped smoke tendril
wrapping around the miniature
thighs i gave out for imagination’s sake
and was inelligible for a return
because within the small pleasure
contained my inexact everything
that it was perfectly clear
the night the moon disappeared
saved neither the nightbird nor
those glow-eyes he searched for
night after night roaming
his city alone combing
through himself sifting
himself down to nothing
because he believed that
a pillage makes a man.
he wanders the night whose fingers pull
silky feathers from the nightbird’s skull
and jade talons and amethyst eyes
searching still being blind as he dies.
aromatic tobacco shreds
vibrating taste
hard bites
bruised in the morning
and strong drinks’
fluid pens temporarily
cage life’s wild sprawl
her step is fast and heavy
all the days hungry or stung
because she imagined it differently
which amounts to almost
all of her days. she wears black
clothes blackened eyes
and heavier and heavier
heel-jolts the ground audibly.
a slow cracked smile
is a perversion she wears
she knows so well this disillusion.
the perfect shade of purple
is the delicate molded handle
of my little girl knife.
attempts to gather
the quivering edges
of disappearing ditches
my keen girl blade erect
singing on her splendid purple pedestal
cuts and cuts.
grasping for my little girl
knife; perfect perfectly,
the sweetest, slowest torture is
you’ll never hold her.
her pure mirror surface teases,
braids, curls screaming fantasies
you threaten her—my perfect,
little girl, perfectly
purple knife—with.
Faced off over the tiled table,
we trade chessmen
with learned discretion.
Midday sun pelts skin
(heat wears my nerves thin),
I forget about working and play
out of habit or self-preservation.
No two matches are alike,
but openings unfold like
the lightweight pleasure
found in a familiar melody.
Don’t take offence that (approaching
the critical point where I start wisecracking)
right now I am measured
in length-of-smoke-break.
Faced off over the tiled table
(it’s more than palaver I’ve missed),
we find a rhythm
made for settling down.
Sweat pearls foreheads
glistening, our torsos droop
over forks and skewers
we have lined up to play.
No two middlegames are alike,
certainly not for us (nobodies),
playing at (sleeves of grown ups’
suits swallow kid-sized wrists)
playing this game,
stolen away in a garden
whose glory is all
crushed cans and smokes.
Faced off over the tiled table,
elbows anchored, you twirl
a captured pawn in hand,
screeching whistles punctuate
the sun’s glare scorching,
work thoughts jab and twist
(is it worry or a burn
tickling my sensitive scalp?).
No two endgames are alike.
When work recalls me,
We snuff out dutifully, leaving
a full ashtray, the tiled table
(an unbearably hot surface),
and two benches (whose fading cool
impressions speak of presence)
reheating…
I
The lake stretches like a wall
Between two shores, each visible
From the other side.
I swim across the narrow strip
To feel the push and pull
Reawaken heat in muscles
Left unused for a long time.
II
We swam out and back
Under the lazy retreat
Of an August sun, preserved
In the water’s still surface.
Me then you heavy-breathing
Lanced the liquid image,
Cloud lines, undersides of faces
Contorted into motion.
At the far side I wanted
To watch sun’s slow demise,
But your gaze-fire lashed,
Traitorous, against my cool cheek.
III
Our return was a non-return—
Sloping wrong pebbles too bright,
Something warped replaced
The shore we had left behind.
Love is a learned pathology
Manifested in trivialities,
Irremediable soft spots
For songs heard from the backseat
And delicate lighthouse figurines.
This body given to me I ask
If it is enough mine,
If these slender fingers, strong nails,
Oblongs of breasts and feet,
If this inability to sit up straight
With tears crowding my eyes,
If this leaky heart is all
Otherwise attributable to
a wound; a miracle;
a sentence; a cell.
Are we doomed to confuse
One and other’s limbs suspended
In the warm, dark pool of relation?
Swollen bellied clouds parade
Across the sky king-like,
Robed in purple and gold.
Light beams usher in a sunset
Lazy and mystical as death.
After a summer downpour,
My walled-in garden is beautiful—
Foliage dazzles in fresh dew,
Sapling sentinels heed wind’s call,
A lithe calico cat chases a shrew—
But!—
The garden walls form a telescope,
Giant, living, vigilant,
Thrusting my chin
Towards the ether. Violent wonder
Ravishes me, leaves me slack,
Stripped to the skin.
Life curles up like a question,
Culminating in
A placeholder, a garden.
Dok se sama šetam po gradu
Slušajući jednu Šadinu pesmu,
Razmišljam o tome kako je divno,
Kako je divno biti mlada
Sa smeđom bogatom kosom,
Znojem koji me čini blistavom.
Kako je divno biti slobodna
Da pogazim svaku pukotinu
Koja mi se pojavljuje na putu.
Kako je divno biti blesava
Devojka koja se topi preko svega
Kao najslađa mlečna čokolada.
Zamalo sam zaboravila
Šadin glas i ozbiljne, odrasle obaveze;
Zar pod ovom vrućinom nije najbitnije
Jesti, ali ne previše,
Kupiti nove haljinice,
Mrdati guzice poput lepeze?
Međutim, jedan stih me čupa sa neba,
Spuštam se na ono vreme,
Onaj grad, one srušene trotoare
Gde među zgrbljenim zgradama
Hodali smo, gazeći pukotine,
Dok smo brbljali kao brze reke.
Bila je tada jesen i sećam se
Kako si me uhvatio za obe ruke
Da mi kažeš one reči ljubavne.
Vraćam se u ovaj grad, samo moj,
Gde više nije jesen i ti nisi tu;
Sama slušam sledeću pesmu.
Znam da je divno biti sama,
Ali je divnije imati sećanja
Od tada na platformu metroa.
Kako si me uhvatio za obe hladne ruke
Ne zaboravljam—ljubav mi se vraća
Uz pesme, dok hodam sve brže i brže.
‘Ej, gde si, mala?
Gde mi je čašica šljive?
Sipaj mi do kraja,
Malo preko ivice,
Znaš kako ja to volim.
Pomeri te kukove i donesi je,
Znaš šta me ispunjuje.
Posmatraš me, maco,
Kako na eks završim je
Pre otvaranja usta ponovo
Kao sufiks si iza mene.
Držiš moje želje, ovo
Od seksa bolje je,
Pijem čaše i obris tebe.
A ti to već znaš, ljubimice,
U tome i ti uživaš, kako idu
Svi i kao čaše se lako peru.
Zato služiš s odgovornošću,
Voljena od svih, ljubav nikome;
Voliš da te ne uhvate za ruku,
Uzimaju, samo uzimaju.
Hteo sam da bacim
Jednu cigaru s terase
Al’ mi je rekla,
Nemoj, nemoj!
Tu je stavi,
Na prozorsku dasku.
Rekoh, ženo, što?
Nemam pepeljaru.
U redu—baciću je dole.
Stani, stani! Ne bacam ih.
Stavljam ih zajedno,
Jednu za drugom
Da leže mirno, i tako
Pravim svoje groblje malecko.
Nešto nisam razumeo,
Pa je moja završila nekako
Negde dole, mislim,
Nema veze, njeno groblje
Ne može biti punije.
I dalje sam tako mislio
Dok smo pušili jednu
Za drugom cele noći,
Nakon one prve svaku
Stavljajući na dasku.
Stavio sam oko nje i ruku
U jednom trenutku tišine.
Kad je počela da broji
U sred mraka, videh
Te blede leševe u njenoj ruci,
Poteze niko osim nje
Ne bi razumeo.
Pred njom su ležale
Sve cigarete osim moje.
Čekao sam bez daha,
Strah mi se spustio u srce.
Odjednom je prestala,
Nije se okrenula
I postavila jedno pitanje
Bez ikakve sumnje ali tiho:
Hoćeš li prespavati kod mene?
Ноћна птицо,
У језгру тамне ноћи
Памтим те твоје очи
Снене, ватреније од жара.
Твој несташни осмех
Сија к’о млади месец,
Блистав попут сребра.
Ноћна птицо,
У језгру тамне ноћи
Одјек твоје песме у мени
Куца све јаче,
Твој глас звони к’о звона
У бунару сећања и снова,
Који ме споро трује.
Ноћна птицо,
У језгру тамне ноћи,
Звезде и мали врхови
Шире се с балкона
Где учим желети,
Где не могу видети
Небо без твог лица.
Ноћна птицо,
У језгру тамне ноћи
Ни овај ветар хладни,
Ни претња сна ни зоре,
Ни умор моје душе
Не може да ми одузме
Ужитак ове чисте чежње.
Око мене се увијаш, затежеш се полако
К’о бодљикава жица у моје меко тело
Грлиш и љубиш, гризeш, нежно зариваш.
Крвљу те заливам да ме не остављаш.
Немој, немој се удаљити од мене;
Стегни ме чврсто, кобно, нема везе.
Немој, немој мој загрљај напустити;
Имам још за тебе миловања врелих.
Затегни се чвршће; љубави, тебе заволех,
Те твоје црне очи, тај твој поразни смех.
Мрвиш ме и све више те очајно волим.
Убиј ме у наручју, само то те молим.
Завршавам у загрљају,
Путујем кроз време,
У бездану твојих очију
Заносим се,
Потпуно губим се.
Крај тебе могу преболети
Муња кад ме погоди,
Ужасно ће горети,
Живци живи,
Док ме воде трагови
Хладним рукама низ реке
Подељене, потоци потока
Наших успомена и нигде
Тебе нема,
Изгубљен си у плесу тока.
Не могу да ти одолим,
Течеш мојим венама,
Срцем скроз отровним,
Срећна, за чежњама
Лутам светом светлуцавим.
Мој зумбул стоји
На прозорској дасци,
Крхак споменик
Граница моје љубави.
Колико су лепе, оне
Витке, невине латице
Сваког зумбулчића,
Неће да мe поправе,
Ни да ме ископају.
У мом срцу царујy
Страх, бол и страх бола
Нанета нежношћу.
Назвала сам га срећо
Кад тај први бледи дио
Као чудне руке духа
Из земље ми је пружио.
Лепи мој, одрасао је
Сад више посрасти неће,
Већ је чисто, беспрекорно
Плаво-љубичасто цвеће.
Зато желим да га склоним
Пре него што га изгубим.
Припада музеју или гробљу.
Али нећу—њега волим!
Zabranjeno pušenje pišena belom znaku.
Svi se žalimo,
Cigarete u ruci,
Na zid oslanjajući,
Dok pušimo kao da je život u pitanju.
U pravu smo da se smejemo u lice
Bezmoćnog zahteva,
Bez glasa,
Bez tela,
Bezobličniji od oblačića
Koje našim ustima
pravimo od dima.
Mi smo i posmatrani i posmatrači.
Znak je svuda
Mrtvo slovo na papiru
Ali samo čeka
Vreme da nas baci u nevolju
Zato što nam je rek’o
Nemojte.
I namerno nismo obraćali pažnju.
Sve vreme znak visi na ispucalom zidu
Gledajući kroz oblačića,
Bez glasa,
Bez tela,
Bez ičega
Osim naših očiju
Koje vide, žude i stvaraju.
Već smo shvatili k’o sudije i svedoci,
Da nam znak ništa ne znači,
Da i mi postavljamo
Bezmoćne zahteve,
Da i mi se krijemo
Iza oblaka i dima,
Da i mi smo ustima napravljeni.
A najjadnije? Nikad nećemo priznati
Ništa od toga.
Znak mora visiti;
Mi ga moramo ignorisati.
Zadovoljstvo nam dolazi
Iz sukoba nemog znaka i našeg hrabrosti.
Nisam.
Nisam spremna.
Kažem ogledalu:
Zdravo. Dobar dan.
Dobar dan—izvolite?
Dalje, dalje, idi na zaključak:
Мože burek s mesom
Ponavljam
Dok vezujem pertle,
Dok se oblačim jaknu,
Dok zatvaram vrata iza mene,
Dok hodam,
Dok otvaram vrata pekare,
Dok mi ne kaže,
Izvolite
Pre nego što kažem,
Dobar dan.
Što mi ništa ne ide po planu?
Znojim se,
Ali završim rečenicu.
Nije toliko loše, mislim,
Možda ne bi trebalo
Da vežbam u ogledalu.
Razmišljam o svemu
Odnosno, ni o čemu
Kada mi naglo kaže cenu.
Shvatim da nisam čula,
Da vreme i dalje prolazi
Ali su mi usta zaglavljena,
Samo mi se vrti u glavi
Ono što sam vežbala.
Čujem huku svoje krvi
Dok mi se faca crveni.
Novčići zvone protiv poda
Kao zvuk metalnog kaveza.
Kesa mi iz ruku ispada.
Bežim
Bez bureka.
Kakav je osećaj
Da budem dobrodošla,
Bez ičega osim želja
Definisanih starim pesmama
Na nekom drugom jeziku?
Kakav je osećaj
Da ćaskamo uz jelo
Više nego što jedemo,
Dok mi ne kaže šaljivo:
„Ajde. Da se ne ohladi.“
Kakav je osećaj
Kada delimo svoje snove,
Nas dve dobro hranjene
I nikad više usamljene
Devojke, o drugim vremenima?
Svojim ograničenim rečima
Ne mogu da izrazim tačno
Koliko bih tim obrocima
Zamenila sve bogatstvo,
Sve drugo zadovoljstvo.
Ipak, uz malu pomoć ove pesme
Podsećam te na te uspomene
Sreće i bezbrojnih ručaka,
Kada smo postale
Dve istinske prijateljice.
That is top shelf shit, Judas.
Let’s hold off on self-annihilation,
Start small, all the way back
With the wild days of youth,
When we got high in bathrooms
Or clambered onto rooftops
To savor the scramble down.
Those memories are sugar cubes
In our beer-wet mouths,
And we laugh and spout words
Meaning close to nothing now
Because I told you to slow down,
Quit pulling, trying to spool me
In your fumbling hands.
There is no need—
I’ll kiss you. This lunge,
My love, is not truth, Judas.
I spin a pure and total fantasy
Of neatly joined seams, a line
Made righteous in pilgrimmage,
For pilgrims’ lips puckered
To receive these ripe summer fruits.
Before we’ve had time to hurt,
I say goodbye, evening Judas.
Nightbound to the garden, I’ll return
The moment you are gone.
For something to do I count
My heel strikes on red brick streets
In new-old leather boots—
Jedan, dva, tri, jedan, dva, tri—
Bicycles whir like quiet kazoos,
These soft heels don’t quite clatter,—
Jedan, dva, tri, jedan, dva, tri—
Everywhere is people chatter.
As I round the golden bend,
Fuzzy-mouthed off decadence,
One refrain ping pongs its—
Jedan, dva, tri, jedan, dva, tri—
Heel strikes, quiet kazoos,
It doesn’t matter it all sounds new—
Jedan, dva, tri, jedan, dva, tri—
Along the canals echoes of you.
I could go for another, but
The night trees whisper
Bedtime stories
Disguised as sighs
Over my heavy head
I hear a lost language
Speaking from inside
Its own warm place
Without a sign
The wind’s cold fingers
Play through sands
Or was it flesh
Or were they strands
Knotted cold
Unbearable aching
This urge yawns
To drink to you again
Atop a squat table, golden cards
Flit like lightning bugs,
Treasure piles between us,
Or so the monkey brain thinks.
Sweat swoops down the nose
I will soon perch above, uncertain
Legs bracing for the realization—
This, yours, is a whole other game.
Door closed, the final move made, I
Reshuffle the cards, trash a heap
Of cig butts, fill the sink with cups,
Purple swirls of dried wine inside.
Meanwhile the sun’s grandmother eyes
Scald my cheeks, my dark hair,
Saying what goes without saying
I cannot begin to remove the traces:
Oil prints smeared on faces, bends
In eterally tender places,
More than stains and scents
Remain on objects we occupied.
Nothing belongs to me
Longer than a breathlength,
Longer than this rally,
Longer than a few sentences
Spilled from a pink mouth,
Bottom lip artificially sweet,
Through a neat collection
Of prematurely stained teeth.
Perhaps I would change tactics,
Maintain my defenses and trade
Pieces more easily given away,
But it goes without saying, I must play.
Death is a happenstance thing
Wavering, like leaves
You appear
Falling, a signal of
Summer’s quiet caving in.
My child-language is a foal
Bucking against
Narrowness
And those wine-dipped fingers
You rubbed on my milk teeth.
All there is to know about
Life, lies people tell, loving
Not owning
Glances our small infinity,
Flowery and mute, smiling.
Friends are made for loving,
I say,
not the top-down,
inside-out kind.
I only want to pocket your life,
palm it like a deck of cards
handled smooth.
I want to wear your best,
the suede, the double-breasted—
it fits, i make it my size.
Wouldn’t it be love, that generation,
magnifications multiplying,
music amplified?
Or would be love, that killing
potential? Destruction
as in alchemy,
all tremendously,
if you love
like I love,
irrevocably.
Now and then, I suck on stained lips,
Tasting sips of another beginning.
It goes: I tip over a proverbial cliff,
Hair helplessly splayed in the wind,
Pulled into your orbit.
I am spinning and spinning,
Your music box ballerina;
Infinite and precious, your hands
Hold my wrists.
Barlights glint off shirt buttons
And polished nails like roadsigns
As we revolve in circles, shrinking
With the night and night people,
Bodies negotiating equilibrium.
I am spinning and spinning,
Fawn-legged despite myself;
Slow arming, your hands
Madden my wrists.
The greenish stained glass lamp shade
On your bedside table, book piles,
Little surrogates jostle the valve
I do not want to burst and
Depressurize our being alone.
I am spinning and spinning
A tight, trembling spiral;
Light slips, twists, your hands
Ache my wrists.
Between a puff and gasp, we
Hunker as smelling-sounds,
With or without wine-speaking,
Nothing is said like—yes, please, I love—
Your hair storming the pillow.
In the big mirror, I see
long nursed fears
bunch and cling like magnets
rearrange skin
towards odd ends.
In the big mirror, I am
accidental,
netted together by parts
inconsequential as chemical pulls
activate the heart.
In the big mirror, I want
to hold me,
still this rowdy machine,
so my limbs like marble
cool beauty immovable.
But there is motion
unrelenting in the big mirror:
chord vibrations,
collisions, stubborn inflations
compound massive movements.
Those incalculable sums
or simple errors
rendered in the big mirror
make a foreign system—
indeterminate me.
the certainty of uncertainty
is a crushing reality:
I am trapped.
somewhere in the big mirror
must be the map.
Networks of broken glass
gridlock and bleed me,
an unlocatable
endless reflection reflecting
incoherent in the big mirror.
Footfalls echo in hardwood halls,
Just passing through this place
Adorned with portals, worlds
Man-made but no less true
Than the nature I remember:
Turbid creeks tucked away,
Forest-miniatures built at margins
Of the dead midwest—a reflection
Softened by some distance
Brushing up against beauty.
Whatever the case, I escaped.
Places inhabit me,
Internal portals awaiting
A glance, A finger tip
Touch to reopen the passage,
To release the sea breeze
Or road trips or belly laughter
Or people I will love forever.
So I have come to the gallery,
Myself full of hinges and doors,
To peek into heart spaces
Of Others. Are they the same?
Green landscapes, golden cities,
Teal seas dotted with white dinghies
Remade in the eyes of another,
Appear and disappear before me.
I recognize the blue door, ajar,
Yellow light falls on white steps;
We lean towards one another,
Bottlenecks clink, I hear
Our laughter opening
Like sugar packets. Us two girls
Live in the pulse of evenings,
Creases of pale afternoons.
Perspective is a noble lie
Used to forget the distance
Between this and that door,
Between now and our time.
Where I imagined us
Spiral dark green vines.
You will forgive me for not calling
Because I thought of you,
Because I know what you’d see—
Nothing but a blue door
In the gallery adorned with portals
Capable of returning glances.
Blue is coupled with you;
Blue is a warm tear
Whose inexorable course
Carves slow indelible grooves.
I think of you as I dream
Of you—effortlessly, without fear,
Unashamed that I am invisible
To your mind’s eye,
Darkness unilluminated
By your lighthouse-heart,
A faded impression in a field
Grown over by switchgrass.
My garden holds a singular flower;
You rise, its glowing pistil,
Above innumerable petals,
A center that multiplies.
Because I think of you
As I dream—childlike,
Innocent in passion,
Limitless in devotion,
And never would I dream
Of asking you the same.
The old fortress is a gathering place
Where a brick rampart recasts its shadow,
Layered as a familiar embrace.
Wanderers choose the same paths to retrace
Or study the Sava flowing below;
The old fortress is a gathering place.
A happening folds again and again over space,
Despite changes the facades undergo,
Layered as a familiar embrace.
Sun beams reveal the city’s summer face:
Bright, green, benches full, cups of espresso.
The old fortress is a gathering place.
My favorite part, the park’s heart, will remain
Wizened planes singing with their wind maestros,
Layered as a familiar embrace.
Weather the stone walls may slowly efface,
But for all bodies, seasons, violent throes
The fortress is a gathering place
Layered as a familiar embrace.
I love you like the earth loves the sun,
Like trees love the summer wind
For making their bodies music,
Like a drop of rain loves
Finding its beloved sea again.
You are my sea, my wind, my sun,
And above all, you are
One of one.