Beneath the Murdered Surface
My uvula
is leaving.
After it
the bed and
other things
are out.
Beneath the murdered
surface everything can be
tamed
almost, silently.
I am in the room
up to my hips.
Dear T.,
what is your name?
I dream tallow candles,
they are like hands
which
I cannot look at
on the paper.
Translated from the Croatian by Tina Braticevic
Water Level of Dizziness
I am whispering to you:
On my thighs
there is not much
written
about the water level
of dizziness.
I’ll fall
inaudibly,
without announcement.
Dear T.,
you are an illusion
from which
crawls
neither restlessness
nor sorrow,
nor soft
nor orange
infantile squirrel.
I don’t keep
a diary
because in it
sad
T. eats
the beautiful ears
of my third sister
and dad has schizophrenia.
Rumors about that
are spread by friends,
poets
I don’t like,
therefore barefooted and tainted.
As my sister’s boyfriend
said:
I save the hazelnuts
which will contribute
to the final downfall
of the family.
Translated from the Croatian by Tina Braticevic
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