I am writing to remember the dismemberment of my self
Fragmented, torn into tiny shreds
Shattered glass from the collision that came out of the blue
I was not ready for the darkness
for the daydark that broke my heart.
Not love, but death.
Murder and gasoline.
I have been burning for almost eight years
Smoke and ash on theDanube
The dried dirt sifted by my hands after the bulldozers
And forensic scientists had completed their tasks.
The maggots on the corpses
The failure of my strength
The walls of the old house
Smell like baked bread still born babies
Garlic and tears.
The rooster and the cat gather on the rocks
I am in the land of shadows surrounded by corpses
Bones in the earth
No God here.
I saw their ghosts when I returned to my one room apartment
Shivering breathing in cold blue death.
They looked at me and I stared back.
My knees scraped the cracked soil.
What is left after such a sight?
The smoke from my cigarette rising
I shared it with the spirits at the edge of the grave.
In Vukovar I found the answer to Pilate’s question
Life already Death
Every Birth a death to be.
I must write. It is an imperative
The period jumps out of position
The trauma of the flesh is too large
To be contained by calligraphy.
I almost fainted from your beauty
Your sheltered me from meanness
And I repaid you with anxiety and fear.
You were sunlight and joy
Where I wished to live forever.