The math is clear: you cannot be subtracted from yourself.
A howl, or a less explosive truth: a sigh,
an unbroken thread of lost self-confidence.
Does every step really deserve to leave a print?
Not more beautiful than death, but certainly calmer,
A calcified lust, a silence raw, yet edible
Stir your nipples to riot, aroused, visibly hard
And you roar out milk tastes sour, milk tastes bitter:
The mother you’ve become outgrew the woman in you,
fatigue got ahead of her attempt to return.
But that’s not the deal you made.
If you really have to, you’ll comb the week
into smaller sections of fatigue, but you’ll do it tomorrow.
For now, you’d like to stay silent just a while longer.
You’d like to evoke something lighter than fatty metaphors.
A woman wouldn’t gauge out another woman’s eyes, would she?
Tired, you’re just tired all the time.
Something like this? I’m still here, you try to whisper yourself back.
On the window, a crow patiently watches this uncertain scene,
The bones of my disjointed sentences, the way I pile up adjectives because – why not!
You wanted to write something about milk:
the milk crusted on my cotton T-shirt,
the milk so stale its odor has been stinging my nostrils since early morning
the milk that drips relentlessly.
Body’s howl, or a less intrusive truth: a sigh.
An unbroken thread of lost sleep.
I put my serious, weary heart on the scales –
It weighs a lot more than me and my bed.
Računica je jasna: ne može te se oduzeti od tebe.
Krik, ili manje eksplozivna istina: uzdah,
neprekinuta nit nedostatka samopouzdanja.
Zaslužuje li svaki korak zaista otisak?
Ne ljepša od smrti, ali svakako smirenija,
Okoštena žudnja, tišina sirova, ali ipak jestiva
Pobunila je, probudila, ponukala tvoje bradavice da se jasno ukrute
Pa si zaurlala mlijeko kiselo, mlijeko gorko:
Majka je prerasla ženu u tebi, umor je preduhitrio pokušaj povratka.
A niste se tako dogovorile.
Ako baš moraš, rasčešljat ćeš tjedan,
na manje umore, ali sutra.
Sada bi još samo malo šutjela.
Prizvala nešto jednostavnije od masnih metafora.
Žena ženi oči ne vadi, zar ne?
Umorna, samo si neprestano umorna.
Ovako? Prisutna sam, šapućeš sebe u sebe.
Na prozoru, vrana strpljivo gleda u neizvjesnost ovog prizora,
Kosti mojih nesuvislih rečenica, gomilanje pridjeva jer – zašto ne!
Htjela si zapisati nešto o mlijeku:
mlijeku skorenom na pamučnoj majici,
mlijeku ustajalom do smrada koji štipa od jutra, mlijeku koje kaplje neprestano.
Krik tijela, ili manje nametljiva istina: uzdah.
Neprekinuta nit nedostatka sna.
Važem svoje ozbiljno, iscrpljeno srce –
Teže je od mene i mog kreveta.