HENS

These days the sky crumbles into dust
and everything ends up in the kitchen somehow.
The cold opens up softly like a cotton flower,
the hot hens I tell no one about shiver
ceaselessly,
they don’t go out, don’t sing.
Sometimes, silence carves the city into my bones
and my smile, using the dream and distance
technique it builds you a home.
Only sometimes it becomes the water from the North’s edge.
The white enters behind the eyes
tries to remember which way you tilt the plate 
when there’s just a little soup in it,
what storks in love sound like
and at what temperature roof tiles are fired.

 

Translated from the Croatian by Mirza Puric

KOKOŠI

Nebo se ovih dana rasipa u štaub i
sve nekako završi u kuhinji.
Hladnoća se otvara nježno kao cvijet pamuka,
vrele kokoši o kojima nikome ne govorim drhte
bez prestanka,
ne izlaze, ne pjevaju.
Ponekad mi tišina u kosti rezbari grad
i osmijeh, tehnikom sna i daljine,
gradi ti dom.
Ponekad samo postaje voda s ruba sjevera,
bijelo ulazi iza očiju i
pokušava se sjetiti na koju stranu naginješ tanjur
kada je malo juhe u njemu,
kako zvuče zaljubljene rode
i na kojoj se temperaturi peče crijep.