these days that which we feared
happened too:
with sterile hands I tore apart
bread's golden membrane, fingers
worthy of greater crimes transformed
into pliers, ripped out its soft entrails,
arranged it on the board, molded them
into bullets for friends.
my finger in the heart of the spongy insides,
like the bend of a hoe in land's death rattle,
only there is no land,
was reaching for the elusive bottom.
we were swaying to the rhythm of peasant picks
from the mournful song of wheat and yeast,
the sound of a hungry poor man's throat.
I was ashamed of mother:
her pots with painted plants and polka dots,
made things more palatable,
in there the dead bodies were swimming
free of care, fragrant with rosemary,
cumin and sage, broken legs and shoulders
rolled over with the lightness of a dolphin.
I flinched from father
as he precisely and carefully
cut into the hearts of unsprayed fruits,
making them come alive in the juice
that was leaving them,
as a delicious tribute to the sunday lunch,
he worked a miracle without leaving home.
the crumbs on my table were still dead.
thousands of hungry workers' eyes
were left somewhere outside,
without a seat at the table.
around me as followers,
gluttonous and lustful friends,
used to food that does not resist.
no dedication or a eulogy:
inside the crust, in a not at all heroic fight,
we destroy our daily enemy,
pinch him to the point of exhaustion.
this too shall pass
reporters without borders report from the front lines
but in my mind's eye,
as the guests cheered for victory
something rolled down the table cloth
and was finally and irretrievably lost
in the deep twilight of the kitchen.
ovih dana desilo se i ono
od čega smo strahovali:
sterilnim rukama razdrljio sam
zlatastu opnu hleba, prste
dostojne većih zločina preobrazio
u klešta, vadio mu meke iznutrice,
slagao po ploči, od njih pravio
metke za prijatelje.
moj kažiprst u srcu spužvaste utrobe,
kao prevoj motike u samrtnom ropcu
zemlje, samo što zemlje nema,
tražio je nevidljivo dno.
iz žalosne pesme pšenice i kvasca
njihao nas je ritam seljačkih pijuka,
zvuk gladnog najamničkog grla.
bio me je stid pred majkom:
njene šerpe sa rastinjem i tufnama,
činile su stvari ugodnijim,
mrtvačka tela u njima plivala su
bezbrižno, opojno mirisala na ruzmarin,
kumin i žalfiju, s lakoćom delfina
prevrtale su se skršene noge i pleća.
zazirao sam od oca
dok je precizno i s pažnjom
zasecao srca neprskanih plodova,
čineći ih skoro živim u soku
koji ih je napuštao,
u slast nedeljnog ručka,
pravio čudo ne napuštajući dom.
mrve na mom stolu bile su ipak mrtve.
hiljade gladnih radničkih očiju
ostale su negde izvan,
bez mesta za trpezom.
oko mene kao sledbenici,
proždrljivi i požudni prijatelji,
navikli na hranu koja se ne opire.
nikakva posveta niti prigodno slovo:
unutar kore, u borbi nimalo herojskoj,
uništavamo nasušnog neprijatelja,
štipamo ga do iznemoglosti.
sve će ovo jednom proći,
javljaju sa fronta reporteri bez granica,
no učinilo mi se,
dok su gosti klicali pobedi,
da se nešto skotrljalo niz stolnjak,
konačno i nepovratno izgubilo
u dubokom sumraku kuhinje.