RECONSTRUCTION

Mother will sit at the table
in the cold white kitchen,
waiting for me to bring her
my book in which I write
how I dug up her bones
to take them back home.

She’ll be there, reconstructed,
like the faces of the houses,
with me wondering which tree
in the park that will never sprout
twigs again was her coffin.

My hand will smell of dirt
and rotten leaves as I turn
the pages looking for some proof
which is not a painted-over truth.
Knowing where she truly is perhaps
I’d forget where I must be.

She’ll say, I’ve never understood
any of your poems, and I’ll see myself
closing the book gently in her lap,
pretending I have the wrong page,
the wrong house, and the wrong city.

REKONSTRUKCIJA

REKONSTRUKCIJA

Majka će sjediti za stolom
u hladnoj bijeloj kuhinji,
čekati da joj donesem
knjigu u kojoj pišem
kako sam iskopao njezine kosti
da ih doma odnesem.

Bit će tamo, rekonstruirana
poput pročelja kuca,
dok ću se ja pitati koje je stablo
u parku sto nikad vise mladice
neće pustiti lijes njezin bilo.

Ruka će moja mirisati na zemlju
i trulo lišće dok okrećem
stranice, tražeći neki dokaz
koji neće prebojena istina biti.
Znadući gdje ona doista jest
zaboravit ću možebit gdje ja jesam.

Kazat će, nikad nisam razumjela
tvoje pjesme, i ja ću gledati samoga
sebe kako blago zatvaram knjigu
u njezinu krilu, gradim se da imam
krivu stranicu, krivu kuću i krivi grad.