Prva miza

by Meta Kušar

Temno modra smokva zori.

Mladiči lastovic še poznajo rdeče sladkosti.

Zgarana lastovka jadra v vročini in pôje,

ko mladiči že sami lové.

Prehraniti dve legli je skoraj umreti.

Noga ene mize stoji na izviru.

Zarana pobiram verze z nje.

Sonce jo nagne in sadeži zdrsnejo, ne vem kam.

Z rokami na kolenih poslušam,

kaj mizica hoče. Zahodna je morska, ležerna.

Pisma že devet let nisem prepognila.

Besede materializiram z juga na sever.

S severa na sever? Ne vem, kje sem.

Iz srca v srce je najkrajša pot.

Z roko napisati pismo je prelepo.

Najprej zakroži med zvezdami.

Netopirji ga ubranijo vseh pasti.

 

Kako brez papirja položiti glas na dlan?

First Table

by Meta Kušar

A dark blue fig tree ripens.

The swallows’ young still know of red sweet things.

The worn-out swallow sails in the heat and sings

while its young already catch on their own.

To feed both nests is almost to die.

One leg of the table stands at the source.

At the crack of dawn I pick the verses off.

The sun tilts it, the fruits slide off, I don’t know where.

With my hands on my knees I listen

to what the little table wants.

The western one is the seaside one, the leisurely one.

I haven’t folded the letter for nine years.

I materialize words from south to north.

From north to north? I don’t know where I am.

From heart to heart is the shortest path.

To handwrite a letter is lovely.

First it does a round among the stars.

Bats ward off all the traps.

 

How to lay your voice in the palm without paper?

translated from Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar & Barbara Siegel Carlson
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