Public Republic

Aksinia Mihailova

Photo: scotthudson

Many nights in a row he has been coming back to the terrace of my dreams,
mounting its crumbling steps – a silent shade like an abandoned house, he seeks
his face in the empty eyes of weathered window sills, a bandana of fading colors
with a bundle of parched cornflowers in his left hand,

my wound – his name, how can I call him back, seven years in a row my wounds have been running deep at nights, how can I conjure up his face from my memories, my bare hand is reaching out – endless space between myself and my palms, vast gulfs,

impregnated with molehills, deserted nests of ants scattered down the gardens, between myself and
my trembling fingers, between my pain and my temptation droplets of my past
are seeping in a puddle of blood – like sticky streams of rotten fruit, they are
crawling down my thighs;

seven years in a row our son has been coming back to my dreams, gifts of bread and salt
intact, like wounds – like your words, different are the gardens of Pas, the air feels heavy
at once, seven years in a row the sour cherry trees have not been shedding their blossoms;

the two of them undressed and made love…

a twig snapped from a sour cherry tree – our son, the bells were tolling
at noontide and the black kerchiefs of mourning women were eating up the sky, where would this road be leading us, dried-up wells sunken in my eyes, searing arrows of the sun stripping our shadows,

when the procession set off for its final march my mother’s voice was still rumbling “open all
the doors of the house”, shall I wait for my son’s return my entire life, mommy, “open
the doors”, I didn’t ask her why, amid the droning of the bees and the scent of unripe honey in
the gardens, I didn’t ask why…

the two of them undressed, kissed each other, because only bodies entwined in embrace could race against time and unchain themselves from pain;

don’t tell me about the gardens of Pas, where are you guiding me to, seven years have passed and our sour cherry trees are still not shedding their blossoms, the breath lingering heavier
at the terrace of my dreams, don’t tell me anything, where is this road leading us,
plains without end wrapped in sour grasses between myself and my words, like an empty molehill –
my womb.

Translated into English by Roumiana Tiholova