Public Republic

Monika Vakarelova
Translated by: Yana Radilova

Photo: winzor2007

To S.P

1
greasy circles are gazing
going around the surface
rootless mirrors
miasmas
hundreds of diluted pupils
deep streams spreading
dissipating black ropes raised anchors
dissolving fingers clinching the earth
softening soil
no more apples

2
the light bulb in the hall
sinks low
hanging down to the temple
next to the wall hanging down
I stand tightly-stuck
where light locks and benumbs me
invisible planks
never did this case have a key
old stringed instrument
left in the darkness
uncompleted notation unreadable page
closed
like a thought which came to end
thought which
tears into pieces
sharp and dry sounds
filling the air straightening the string
searing the throat
too
abruptly
dying away

3
taking breath
I turn my face to one side
one cheek burning
the other dead before being born
I put it to the wall and don’t feel any frost
only slippery tunnels dipped inside
slippery slides black pitches
skin grays here
cobweb will soon grip the neck
where vocal chords will leak
where silence will come
no last shout with hands clinching the bed frame
no last and no first confession
no excuses no accusals
just silence increasing filling the room
closing lips killing words tearing out the throat
only then begins to unravel
backbones gnawed bones slushy thoughts
mournful steams around them black balloons flying off soaring
heavy clouds of sediment rising up breeding grubs
light has sculpted nice hollow tomb close to the eye pit
no apples but well no mould but ink pot
sepia to slide tongue to crawl flesh to dance
scales to stick to the cell to the face
not to be denied by the lake
not to be recognized when I come back