from Initial Coordinates

Monika Herceg

lake

coming home from the village’s barrelhouse
mato fell into a ditch drunk
and slumbered in the snow

meridians of his travelogues
fell out of his hat
and sunk into the depths of the soft snow
drawing on the icy cushion
a unique map of the world
four continents on which
he drove wild horses
sprang up underneath the dry snow
volga’s delta slopped over
right under his head
and he dreamt of the fishermen
in the caspian sea
throwing the nets
filling them with rare specimens
gigantic belugas and sterlets
carelessly awakening
the creatures petrified at the bottom

the largest lake
mato always told the neighbors
its waters never flow out

he never married
had children
nor grandchildren
and had he
maybe he would’ve run faster and bolder
like startled cattle
when the water snakes surfaced
and dragged him down
to the bottom




infectious diseases

ljuba withered abruptly
in a few weeks her fat arms
deflated like bagpipes
first came the doctors then village gypsies
but no one could grasp
where the winter entered her bloodstream
so as to squeeze out the venom
only her eyes remained big
the two glass marbles
that dissected fears like a prism

when she entirely transformed into a spore
they threw her frozen eyes
to the bottom of the lake swelling like dough
in the spring months
for the rusalka nymphs to thaw out the inevitability of disease
underneath the malnourished ribs




ouroboros

grandma fed them warm leftovers of the moon
stored in the basement alongside apples
and once their teeth came in
unexpected like the first snowfall
they let us run off
before the transformation was complete

i was just a newborn when they carried me
through labyrinths of beech limbs
astray
we seemed a family of rabbits
and when any of us would cry
the forest’s bare bodies stifled
the density of the sobs

they could smell us
freezing with suspense

they could hear the wood hardness
ripening in our lungs

along the way we planted stories in the hawthorn shrubs
so the offspring could find their way back
and in that earth’s spin
we would’ve become half-trees
had the unhealthy warm east wind
not swept
the last of our traces
and finally blown in
the spring




respading

my mother visits the cemetery once a year
not wanting the villagers to think we’ve
neglected the dead
she then arranges billets with care
heather saffron horsetail
and respades the graves as if it were
the autumn hoeing of the garden
one is not to step on the toes of the dead

as under the ground an army of tiny creatures
disseminates limitless decay
feeling apathy and shame seems inevitable
to this fact that sadness fades
at the same pace death within them grows
unpleasantly rapid




fruit

to break the curse
mother sacrificed a herd of sheep
a tractor chickens rabbits
she even let the corn die out

in january she blossomed for the fourth time
like a young cherry tree
the fruit had tiny eyes for good luck
and hair full of oak
half-roe half-sister

translated from the Croatian by Marina Veverec