Translated by Hana Samaržija
I photographed a duck
that stood on a wooden trunk
to show you the duck and the trunk
or to say: there was a duck.
I spend the rest of the day applying make-up
and then watching myself,
observing myself from the distance, until I
recognize myself, and wave hello.
When I am done, I say: this is a mouth
or, this kind of of mouth:
and I immerse my lips into a large pomegranate
and say Pomegranate,
there was a pomegranate,
this kind of pomegranate.
and then swallow it whole.
I only appear for myself
and these acts entails storms
from a low sky of treetops,
locusts and crickets.
They are actually the same creature,
only one had long lost its cry
when it buried it in the earth
to shelter it
and then forgot it.
Green on the eyes, red on the lips,
the other held on to its cry
and got a badminton racket,
a racket like the one which we,
as children, used to strike flying beetles
and some used to, after knocking them down,
halve them with the racket’s edges,
crooking its rims
and ripping its net,
but not me.
This morning, the duck ate pomegranate.
Or, it had yesterday hatched that pomegranate.
It was red,
with a red beak and a red tail,
it was as green,
as a locust, a cricket,
as red and as green as meat sitting on grass.
In all countries
today is Sunday
The day is as standard
as the wounds on the knees,
calves and thighs of the girls,
on a mine field,
in grass rising above their waist.