Bird, fruit of a plum
that summer plums have been ripening in reverse.
their flesh was blue
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