“Gauze” & “The Lake”

→ PUBLISHED IN ISSUE NO. 28: WINTER 2022

Gauze

When I’m 37 years old, I won’t be
bald. I won’t
wear white robes with red
intestines in the pocket.
When I’m 37 years old,
my mother won’t die. I won’t
knock on the doors of my sons’ rooms with
stupid questions on a stupidly happy
face.
When I’m 37 years old, I won’t
exercise at half past five
in the morning and whistle through my nose like
a maniac. I won’t
towel off in village
inns and offend pious
people after they barely survived
the war. I won’t
wear knickers. I won’t
bring up Haloze and everything they took
from us and say
it’s right.
When I’m 37 years old, I won’t
be on duty, but
free. I’ll let myself grow a long beard and long
nails, my white ships will sail all the world’s
seas. And if a woman
gives birth to my children, I’ll throw them through
the windowpane from the left corner
of the dining room and wonder
what will fall on the pavement first,
the glass or the gauze.

---

The Lake

Wisteria rip the tarp off the monkey’s chest
with large wheels and great force. The camp gazes
into the valley. Bends. Gray birds thunder

at the hypothesis of cells. I have no idea when the valley
was submerged. Maybe three hundred thousand
seventy two years ago. I saw

a postman. He was swimming out of the house. His
bag was rolling in yellow water. Smoke
came from the chimneys. I didn’t understand how

smoke lives underwater. How the postman breathes.
How daisies and clover retain their
color. How the seasons don’t

collapse beneath the poster. Where the postman changes
his clothes. Why he doesn’t sleep in a trunk. Why he has
shorter legs than the other postman, his

colleague. A pine needle fell on the surface
of the lake. It’s already traveling. Already soaking
in the water and rushing toward the postman’s head.