Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2015  v14n1
an online journal of literature and the arts
 print preview
translation from the Slovene by Brian Henry

Yesterday a House, Today Nothing
Prule district, Ljubljana

In a slow unsyncopated rhythm I pass a house
with one window. I go, I go, I stop. From its huge pane
it summons me: a dark spot, as wide as a cap.
I read about it in an ancient Polish tale. I waver,

lick my nails, watch, weigh my chances: it is a good target,
if not for the stone I throw, then for my landing. It will be
an emergency landing, I can see that, happy to accept this.
What matters is that I get in and fold my parachute, blow away

breadcrumbs and light a fire with my hair. Personal sacrifice
and collective safety. It really burns, but I’m not against it,
not at all. It was burning in the room, a modest drawing room.
A woman in middle age, who had studied piano playing

in London, doled out evergreen melodies, irregular verbs
and slaps, which rang long. Still resounding in my head,
they echo and vanish like smoke when in a slow
unsyncopated rhythm I pass the house.  end  

return to top