NARANČA ILI PJESMA O LJUBAVI

Zrelu i veliku uzmem je u lijevu ruku,
desnom je pomilujem,
kažiprstom dodirnem skoro svaki nabor.
Čvorišta,
u kojima stanuje njena otvrdnula tuga,
uvijek me iznenade svojom veličinom.
Noktom načinim prvi ubod.
Ne pruža veći otpor
i ne buni se.
U tišini
žutom suzom
uzvratimo jedna drugoj
pristajanje na mučni proces koji nam slijedi
i označimo početak.
Dalje sve ide uhodano:
ogolim joj jedno rame,
pa drugo.
Zatim struk.

Uskoro potpuno gola
u tankoj prozirnoj košuljici
drhti pred našim očima.

Hajde razdijeli je, izgleda dobro – kažeš
čekajući na onoj udaljenosti sa koje
sve i izgleda dobro.
Odugovlačim s posljednjim potezima svlačenja
jer znam
kad je potpuno ogolim i razdijelim
biti će teško održati
čak i sjećanje
na ljepotu njene cijelosti.

THE ORANGE (or a Poem about Love)

Ripe and large I take it into my left hand.
I caress it with my right
my forefinger running along almost every furrow.
Nodes
where its hardened sorrow resides
always surprise me with their size.
The tip of my fingernail makes the first stab.
It doesn’t offer much resistance
and it doesn’t protest.
In silence, we shed a yellow tear
at each other in compliance with
the painful process that’s to follow and
we mark the beginning.
From here on, everything is routine
I bear its one shoulder
and the other.
Then the waist.

Soon, completely naked
in the thin, transparent shirt
it shivers before our eyes.

Come on, split it, it looks good –
you say, waiting at a distance from which
everything does look good.
I hesitate to remove what’s left of its clothes
because I know, when I strip it bear and split it
it will be hard to keep
the memory
of the beauty of its whole.

HISTORY IN ARIAL

Finally I found a suitable computer program
to draw my family tree.
It offers all kinds of forms, examples on how to fill it out,
detailed instructions in case of indecisiveness or mistakes.
I take the papers from the drawers and
start the process of finding a home for my history.

The dead don’t complain,
but others don’t share my enthusiasm,
so I bear the whole burden of the truth myself.
I copy the names and dates into specified boxes in the program.
Built-in calendars, date validation protocols warn
you cannot die if you haven’t been born.
Mercilessly I cut short my mother’s long, emotional notes on our ancestors
and type in the allowed 100 characters.

Thanks to modern technology the job is quickly done.
Ordered squares linked by arrows look nice on the screen.
The program is perfect so I can use color to emphasize generational or familial attachments,
separate infant from old age deaths or from those who were taken by war or some strange illness.
I can calculate average lifespan in the families, centuries back.
One click of the mouse allows me to line us all up outside of temporal hierarchy,
centuries converge,
the family enters impossible and fun dialogues.
I can do everything my mother never thought possible,
or necessary.

I shut down the computer.
My history in Arial protected from oblivion
can now peacefully wait for new generations.

I often open my mother’s crumbled papers,
clumsily glued with Scotch tape, folded and shoved into drawers.
The computer?
Never!