Wednesday, February 1, 2012

A Ballad for Metka Krasovec by Tomaž Šalamun

My first full book Šalamun experience and a good one full of soaring startles of language and an odd humor and images that sting. Beautiful balance of such things.

I don't like black cherries on the tree.
Who rubbed soot on the she bear?
A fetus, smashed jaw bone, part of the wind pipe missing.
I'd like to be rain, scrubbing the roof.
I'd like all my hair to burn, to be bare.
I died when I took my shoes off.
Ivy entwined me, like a castle.
Inside me there's still chalk,
outside a small yellow briefcase.
It dangles from my hand like a saint hanged
from a tree--the same cherry tree.

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