To Fly with Warm Stoves

by Dorta Jagić

To Fly with Warm Stoves

at days when I love nobody

it rains and I let

newspaper boats float down the street.

In those boats pulled out of god's body long ago

there are neglected tin soldiers for me

to wipe them, polish them.

Still I do not splash into the first sewage

and I do not say thanks either, nor do I buy

someone a lottery ticket or stuff my pants with new books

for I give up the vows with nonbiblical cabinets.

if only to squint going back on a bus until I relax

and have my mind's eye teach me,

because of all human beings, to drive

an old golf just like captain Noa did

to straighten up, remove a cow from the road

tell everyone down at the turnaround our secret name

taken out of bread, our crumb, our pass.

If only to kiss you o god on a day like that

as something final

and before the post office at the turnaround closes

send some drunk his lost id card

expecting nothing in return.


in those days when I love nobody

the sky is different at dusk.

it gets vulgary gray, congealed,

inconsolable over little girls with a smoky

that on a crowded bus stand near the door

in need of motherly love.

if only the sky now opened above the city

and rain poured out of that disemboweled fish,

if only a thunder roared as though rising from a grave

so that I could run out of that storm

and make it home for the pancakes

with my dear, still unknow family wrapped in them.

So that I could,

in fact, some woman outside in the night rain

slowly take off my wet boots

and look out of the window at my future kids

as they grow on the carpet eating munchmellows,

read lines from Ecclesiastes to their handsome daddy

and out entire street fly up into the sky

lit by huge red-hot stoves

various special effects

from some Spielberg's Christmas foundation

for the curled promised children

Translated by Miloš Đuđević and Damir Šodan