a romanian maid hoovers the room for a sepuku

the radio is off
I bandage my wounded arm with the handkerchief of night

I play a жёлтый song to the bone
between your ribs, the moon

becomes a slice

of bread for the night

for the knock-out.
what should I tell you about, perhaps the ease

with which I open bottles in hotels, how this afternoon I bought
a pair of glass ear-rings from vladimir, and a pair of plastic ones

how I almost bought a third pair

how I don't know if I'll ever wear them

doesn't matter

I'm becoming terrible

it's been a beautiful day but that's subjective

and I can't convey the notion

except like this: look, ants are trickling

up the window sill towards the bag
of crisps, they take the crisps back to the garden

from which a concrete mixer and a guffaw – health, in a word –

can be heard

(you know, the place

where we always wanted to try things on – you
an ancient coat the kind your late father wore, me a

rotten wedding dress,

is now a bookmaker's)

Translated by Mirza Purić

rumunjska sobarica usisavačem namješta sobu za seppuku

radio je ugašen

zamatam ranjenu ruku u maramicu noći

puštam želtaju pjesmu na kost

među tvojim rebrima, mjesec

postaje komad

kruha za noć

za nokaut.

o čemu da ti pričam, kako lako

u hotelima otvaram bocu, kako sam popodne od vladimira

kupila jedne staklene i jedne plastične naušnice

kako sam se skoro odlučila i za one treće

kako ne znam hoću li ih nositi

nije važno

ništa, postajem užasna

dan je bio lijep i to je samo subjektivan doživljaj

koji ti ne mogu bolje prenijeti

nego ovako: gledaj, mravi cure

uz prozorsku dasku prema vrećici

s čipsom, odnose ga natrag u dvorište

iz kojeg se čuje miješalica i glasan smijeh, jednostavno

zdravlje

(znaš, ono mjesto

na kojem smo oduvijek htjeli probati, ti

naftalinski kaput kakav je nosio tvoj pokojni otac a ja

trulu vjenčanicu

sad je kladionica)