Bird, fruit of a plum

by Martina Vidaić


Bird, fruit of a plum

that summer plums have been ripening in reverse.

their flesh was blue

then green

then brightened into blossom.

 

the dark fruit ripened fast by denial,

by pale walls in which iva had shrouded herself

before every party.

 

iva's parents have thought their children that brain

is imprinted manually. iva's brother had large

hands, a hemisphere for every fist,

 

he shared everything in half with his sister.

 

and that ripening existed in order to make us stiff,

to fill us with plum buds, gorge to gorge.

 

with self-confidence the plums were breaking, their pits

falling like hardened tears, the crushed vertebrae,

a bent tree sprouting from each one of them.

 

and afterward, iva's brother

hanged himself from the tree

which also could have been a plum tree.

 

the fruit of dark knowledge ripening into oblivion.

 

I have seen it, death, an unusually large sampler

of the most ordinary, personal darkness,

for they can be seen everywhere, they grow, I have seen them

even on the edges of furniture.

 

and after that, my eyes have clouded over, nothing was

dark enough to be discernible.

 

I have decided: to wrap my eyes with the blind room,

to fiercely, fiercely keep silent,

to pluck the sullen dead silence,

to keep numb with the dark cerebral hemisphere

so that it shines forth into love,

 

but that summer

the walls were bending poorly.

all the time, the plum skins kept breaking against the concrete

as if someone

was trying to break out into song.

© translated by Boris Gregorić

Ptica, šljivin plod

tog su ljeta šljive dozrijevale unatrag.

meso im je bilo modro

pa zeleno

pa posvijetlilo u cvijet.

                        

tamno voće najbrže dozrije nijekanjem,

blijedim zidovima u koje se iva umatala

pred svaki tulum.

                        

ivini su starci učili djecu da se mozak

utiskuje ručno. ivin je brat imao velike

ruke, po jedna polutka u svaku šaku, 

                         

sve po pola sa sestrom.

 

zrenje je postojalo da nas učini drvenima,

napuni pupovima od grla do grla.

                        

šljive su pucale od samopouzdanja, koštice

padale kao okoštale suze, smrvljeni kralješci,

iz svake je niklo po jedno savijeno stablo.

 

poslije, ivin brat

objesio se na stablu

koje je također moglo biti šljiva.

                        

plod tamnog učenja zrio je u zaborav.

                        

vidjela sam, smrt je neobično velik primjerak 

najobičnije privatne pomrčine,

ima ih posvuda, rastu, vidjela sam,

i na rubovima namještaja.

                        

poslije su mi se oči smrkle, ništa nije bilo

dovoljno tamno da bi se uočilo.

                        

odlučila sam: omotat ću oči slijepom sobom

i žestoko žestoko šutjeti,

brati mrkli muk,

mučati tamnom polutkom mozga

da posvijetli u ljubav,

                        

ali tog su ljeta

zidovi bili slabo savitljivi.

stalno su se kore pupova razbijale o beton,

kao da će

netko propjevati.

© Martina Vidaić