Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2003 - Ljudmila
Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2003 - Ljudmila
Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2003 - Ljudmila
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a foot in two worlds<br />
on south terraced slopes<br />
vineyards rose in awnings of foliage<br />
feet lifted me up ten-foot ladders<br />
through the green nearer the divine<br />
fingers easily pinched the dangling blue<br />
thirsty skin touched every soft fruit of the earth<br />
but not tin or plastic<br />
heels digging into grapes it was love<br />
stomping through the eve in granite vats<br />
tannin tingling skin before bed<br />
before blowing out the candle<br />
the blood of christ on my lips then hers<br />
without roots<br />
I.<br />
soles without roots<br />
firmly planted<br />
among coltsfoot<br />
body's weight<br />
etching its own bed<br />
where rain will gather<br />
II.<br />
warm and soft<br />
earth is the skin<br />
that remembers my weight<br />
after i moved on<br />
136<br />
this far, this near<br />
for B.Q. and A.D.<br />
the weight of your head presses my chest, breath labours, after a stanza about "lovers<br />
breaking a porcelain love plump as a whale," you stir, you could have been with anyone<br />
despite your hand resting on my thigh, but encourage me to continue, for months now<br />
i borrow mouths, my own words dried in the wishing-well, i imagine a word weaves your<br />
dreams, stream never to dry, "don't stop, i love the murmur of your voice," how easily<br />
you pronounce love when outside winter settled its heavy stone, a poplar peers in the<br />
window, the garden, shadow-drenched, nothing grows, not even wind. roots slither on<br />
surface, hurried steps on ice remind me of crushed bones, the backyard garden hides<br />
under a white sheet, wronged soles creak, await spring. the flowers were sold again this<br />
summer: a banff concert and a whale's backbone, not even a seed saved. i am<br />
desperately thirsty and stir, the skeleton of a forgotten leaf rasps. you breathe, i move<br />
each limb, a finger at a time, it is not a terrible gesture to move this much slower now<br />
that i know what i do not want. the moment i touch the door handle you sit up in bed<br />
as if your dreams are connected to doors destined to close, "don't go," you whisper. i<br />
return with an aqua libra bottle, two glasses and this unbroken poem for you to open.<br />
137<br />
Translated by the author
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