the bridge

by Evelina Rudan


the bridge

lively shoemakers, sticky fingers, remarkable girls

and a keyboard will be sufficient to tell the story of my life -

story I’m starting to write now that snowflakes are pirouetting outside

and our neighbour is drying her hair in the vis-à-vis apartment

my boyfriend is making French fries

and now that my mouth is dry, fingers responsive

 

I’m not one of the remarkable girls in that story

neither am I one of the remarkable girls’ sweethearts

nor am I a lively shoemaker

and there’s nothing sticky about me

but I could easily be a fish, a dog or a cat

from the house of the shoemaker’s wife

and I could comfort her

when she leans through the window

dreams of adjoining branches

and shouts furiously to no avail

I think I could be a shoe-nail, leather or grease

resting on the shoemaker’s desk while he’s shedding tears

or skipping in triumph (should it turn out I am to be grease, I will be wary,

but if I am a shoe-nail, they will have to look out for themselves)

I could also be a watch, a bag or a pillow

belonging to those young, remarkable girls

crossing the bridge ramblingly

or I could be the bridge itself

sagging and breaking, falling apart

stones and rocks sputtering all around

just like the snowflakes outside

potatoes still frying

hair drying

and the story being written

© translated by Hana Dada Banak

most

nestašni postolari, ljepljivi prsti, sjajne djevojke

i nešto tastature dostajat će za priču mog života

koju počinjem pisati sada dok vani pršti snijeg

dok prekoputa naša susjeda suši kosu

dok iznutra moj mladić prži krumpir

dok su mi usta suha, a prsti pokretljivi

u toj priči ja nisam sjajna djevojka

ni tajna ljubav neke od sjajnih djevojaka,

nisam nestašni postolar

niti išta ljepljivog ima na meni

mislim da bih mogla biti riba, pas ili mačka

u kući postolareve žene

i da bih je mogla tješiti

kad se bude naginjala kroz prozor

kad bude sanjala dotičuće grane

i kad bude vikala bijesno i uzaludno

mislim da bih mogla biti čavao, koža ili mast

na postolarevu stolu kad bude plakao

ili junački pocupkivao (ako sam mast tad ću se čuvat,

a ako sam čavao čuvat će se oni)

još bih mogla biti sat, torba ili jastuk

mladih, sjajnih djevojaka

što raspršeno kroče mostom

ili taj most sam

kako se uleknjuje i lomi, raspada

pršti kamenje krupno i sitno na sve strane

baš kao i ovaj snijeg vani

dok se prži krumpir

dok se suši kosa

i piše priča

© Evelina Rudan