A Balkan Woman Archetype in Transition
Andja died hard, bless her longevity
for
she raised thirty kids and memorized twice as many
complicated
grandkid names such as Yugoslovenka, Yorgovanka
and
her sons and daughters, safe in Tito’s country, would buy her
white
bread, rich like a royal cake, soft and full of sugar.
She
was a hungry child in the First World War, and a starving
pregnant
woman in the Second and before, her drained mother’s
skeleton
and her father’s working force, her husband’s fertile ground
and
an ox who sweats on it, and a large triple-breasted milk-and-honey pool
feeding
her own and others’ progeny. She was the
one for all.
She
was made of steel, made of stone, but she neither danced
nor
watched television, and chatting with neighbors was a waste of time
for
a good patriarchal wife. She cooked incessantly, planted forests
and
cut trees, rode tractors and repaired trucks, for being tall and muscular
meant
even higher expectations, like darning socks and washing toddlers,
and
her husband, when sick or frightened, would drink her herbal teas.
On
his stronger days, she was cursed and beaten, but the villagers
spoke
nicely of her, calling her ženica, a
poor little woman, bless her heart
and
loyalty, her small mouth and no desire, her loving eyes and tiny spoon,
her
silent breathing and tied body, no space, no face, no her
Andja
hardly lived and lived hard, her losses were many but she survived
three
wars and dreading the fourth, infant burials and rape pregnancies,
missing
daughters and dead soldiers: her sons and children’s children.
But
she toiled and prayed and dressed in black.
She
also survived much better days, family gatherings, decadent cakes,
and
great grandchildren moving abroad.
She
would have survived even death itself, but years ago she asked
a
gang of laughing girls to teach her skateboarding, every style,
and
the school is still there, with or without her.
Persephone’s Letter to Demeter
My sojourn in hell, dear mother, will last for more than 6-9 months
and
Pluto is a merciless little brat who throws bombs on his own harem
killing
the least resistant. But my shell is stronger than his hell, so do not worry.
Here
I’m a diplomat who scrubs floors, and a soldier and a whore to Pluto’s masons.
Once
I tried to paint a narcissus, but they cut off my index finger. I’ve grown
an
iron stick to scratch his balls unaided. I’m neither as pretty as he imagined
nor
as chic as he demanded; they call me a cockroach.
Pluto
laughs at how you froze the upperworld. On Fridays he throws parties
and
all our gods of life descend to his level to play his favorite game of mapping
and
firing. I serve them cocktails with pomegranate seeds and teach him
geography. Even Zeus, my father,
simulates shooting at kindergartens.
He
doesn’t even recognize me. Last night he pinched my cheek and moved on.
We
are seldom intimate, Pluto and I. His underground is all around, with daily
business
trips. Whenever he gets a good bargain for a soul, he talks about my
promotion.
A news reporter or a cheerleader, he says, is better than a plain girl
scooping
the dogs’ poop. I just need more exclamations to excite his Plutonian
nation,
and he will launch me on his TV at once.
But
I want no propaganda, especially not from hell. I sleep well and transcribe
my
dreams on Pluto’s ex-wife’s typing machine, burning her fallen hairs
in
one of your ashtrays.
Yesterday
I had a vision of you giving birth to another
Kore.
Drooling after my younger version, Pluto was carried away
in
his Lamborghini, but soon got stuck in the catacombs
dividing
the two worlds.
His
mouth full of soil was announcing spring.
Peaceful Stranger
This morning I was at peace
with
persistent leaking of waters
around
and inside me
I
let solutions and liquids
rinse
my tranquil body
eliminating
the last atom of lust
until
I was sober enough
to
look at you again
and
I just couldn’t believe that such an
attraction
fails to purify recent sediments
when
it should be so easy
to
get you out of the system and forget
that
perhaps your dirty mind coupled with rakija
made
no distinction between me and the cleaning lady
the
day you decided to have it at all costs.
And
instead of the lady, who I admire,
you
screwed my peace and eloquence
making
me gasp for words every time I try to clarify
whether
you were or were not right in your binary ruminations.
This
morning I was perfectly aligned
with
serene waters of my solitude, and even my underpants
remained
on a sole washline, dry and undisturbed.
I
swallowed my breakfast slowly and enjoyed a cup of tea
thinking
of abstract poetry and how at a particular moment
words
undress our most primitive intentions and we yearn for more
chewing
on a cinnamon cake. The one you didn’t like
teamed
with the bitterness of your chai and I
went
on keeping my juices at bay. But the way you sucked
on
an empty cup
inserted
your tongue again
amidst
the placid movements of my thighs
and
I felt licked and enraptured, catching fire
like
a burning bagel whose center doesn’t hold
whose
hole doesn’t center
whose
ring is unable to keep
the
honey dripping from your fingers
The
morning I decided to be a peaceful stranger
you
raced like a crazy horse and read all my maps
flawlessly,
you knew me and sensed my weaknesses
your
nothing was my something, and you played
more
than I could imagine, but it was not you
fiddling
with my stringy desires, it was certainly not you
barring
the passion of my dancing feet, it was fear
deep
like a chasm that devoured our ancestors
dreading
foreign lands yet getting there
whenever
we embrace
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