The chicken are responsible for the existence of God

by Martina Vidaić


The chicken are responsible for the existence of God

tonight my hair is the cap made of worsted wool

which unravels at the neck and that part under the forehead (which I call reason)

 

my room barfed me out of the window,

she felt nauseated by so much anxiety.

 

the sky wrapped, caked red from the clouds,

this is how the blazing inside of the oven must look like

the one dad purchased at the fair in Benkovac

a little cracked on the side so the dawn can pour in.

 

behind the house the darkness is densest with the rustling,

as if we still had the chicken coop.

we used to have one, together with other neighbors,

so nobody minded the smell. one neighbor

had discovered a butcher in my dad and sacrificed the chicken to him.

when the wings would flutter, she'd fold her hands

praying for his soul.  rightly she had believed

that god should be in charge of dad

as dad is in charge of chicken.

as the created is usually above the creator.

I stayed away from the chicken, especially the gray one

having hair like Mr. Karadzic.

I could not tolerate that much power.

 

my tissue tonight wants to overcome itself. 

become a point that will barf out a new evolutionary line.

the chicken know,

that's how every new god is made.

 

the consequences are permanent, but removable,

a cock that knows how to split the chink in the oven,

and to spoil the god's lunch,

to feed the birds with the crudity.

© translated by Boris Gregorić

Kokoši su krive što postoji bog

kosa mi je noćas kapa od grube vune

koja se truni na vrat i ono pod čelom (to zovem

razum).

 

soba me izbljuvala kroz prozor,

bilo joj je mučno zbog toliko nemira.

 

nebo je obloženo, zgrušanocrveno od oblaka.

tako mora da izgleda užarena unutrašnjost peke

koju je ćaća kupio u benkovcu na sajmu,

malo napukle sa strane pa zora ulazi.

 

mrak iza kuće je najgušći šuškanjima,

kao da još uvijek imamo kokošinjac.

imali smo ga dok su ih imali svi susjedi,

tako da nikome nije smrdjelo. jedna susjeda

otkrila je u ocu koljača i prinosila mu kokoši.

kad bi krila zaklepetala, sklopila bi ruke

i molila za njegovu dušu. mislila je s pravom

da bi bog trebao biti nadležan za oca

kao što je otac nadležan za kokoš.

kao što je većinom stvoreno iznad stvoritelja.

ja nisam prilazila kokošima, pogotovo onoj sivoj

koja je imala kosu kao karadžić.

nisam mogla podnijeti toliko moći.

                        

moje tkivo želi noćas nadići sebe.

biti točka koja će izbljuvati novu liniju evolucije.

kokoši znaju,

tako nastaje svaki bog.

 

posljedice su neuklonjive, ali otklonjive,

pijetao zna kako rascijepiti pukotinu u peki,

pokvariti bogu ručak,

sirovošću nahraniti kokoši.

© Martina Vidaić