Judith’s monoloque in the evening darkness

by Stanka Hrastelj


Judith’s monoloque in the evening darkness

Thunder accompanies you to the scent of raw

not yet purified wool, you continue on your own,

lines on your hands do not point out the direction

and you sing, you try to sing in a language,

which has been born too soon,

but yet again it is already eroding,

you communicate with the movements,

with trambling of your buttocks, learned from the men.

Asyria is on the North.

You need only one thread to return.

Is this what people call measuring time?

 

Being chosen nation always feels like the knife in my back,

it comes when I respond without any sparks,

its aromatic oils

in large quantities kill.

after comes the moment when the thread vanishes

and the light disappears.

The voyage offers you juicy orange

in its stretched arm

and in the other hand wide saltpans of fear.

Just a little bit, just this lifetime.

Book opened,

voices started becoming wornout, fading,

the same as the left and the right side.

There was a behest which did not lead anywhere.

There was that much.

 

Trick – men are unaware of:

circling with the womb – not with the hips.

There was language, premature,

it sank into a page of Book

and sliped on the slope of the text

into loneliness and fear.

 

It is too late to back away.

You have to learn a huge number of codes

to be able to seduce –

the direction and the length of looks you give,

tones of voices, smells of armpits, the weight of movements.

The game that goes to your heart.

 

Holding of Holofern’s head tires me,

and because we are talking about it:

there was no fulfilment.

Bluff, but the person in not always worth it,

and is always underestimated.

© translated by Alenka Sunčič Zanut

Juditin pogovor s samo seboj, zvečer, v temi

Grmenje te spremi do vonja po surovi

neprečiščeni volni, naprej greš sama,

brazde na dlaneh ne nakazujejo smeri

in poješ, poskušaš peti v jeziku,

ki še ni donošen,

pa že erodira,

spregovoriš z gibi,

s tresenjem ritnic, ki so te ga učili moški.

Asirija je na severu.

Po eni sami nitki se lahko vrneš nazaj.

Je to merjenje časa?

Izvoljenost naroda se mi vedno zabada v hrbet,

pride ob urah, ko se odzivam brez isker,

njegova dišavna olja

v nenadzorovanih količinah ubijajo.

V nekem trenutku se nitka izmakne

in svetloba izpari.

Potovanje ponudi sočno pomarančo

v iztegnjeni roki

in v drugi široke soline strahu.

Samo še malo, samo še to življenje.

Knjiga se je odprla,

glasovi so se začeli obrabljati, rumeneti,

leva in desna stran enako.

Bila je zapoved, ki ni nikamor peljala.

Bilo je je toliko.

 

Trik, za katerega moški ne vedo:

kroženje z maternico – ne z boki.

Bil je jezik, nedonošen,

na neki strani knjige se je ugreznil

in zdrsnil po pobočju zapisa

v samoto in strah.

Odskočiti ni več mogoče.

Za zapeljevanje se moraš naučiti

cel kup šifer –

smeri in trajanja pogledov,

tonov glasu, vonjev pazduh, teže gibov.

Igra, ki jo s časom vzljubiš.

Držanje Holofernove glave pa me utruja,

in ko smo že pri tem:

nikakršne ekstaze nisem doživljala.

Blef, ki ga ta, ki mu je namenjen,

ni vedno vreden,

je vedno podcenjen.

© Stanka Hrastelj, Nizki toni (Goga, 2005)