Barbara Pogačnik (Slovenia)

IF NOT THE VENETIAN TIDE, THEN LEBANON
 

The streets are flooded with low water; it seems to be Venice. Without
aim, or with all roads opened to all aims, the water
splashes, flaring up, or maybe we are already drenched
targets blown to bits without being sure that anything blew up;
Europe, barely a fish, is still breathing like the humid sky.

It seems that it’s only the heat flashing, but
the interrogations stretch on.
The things left behind are anxious, during the evacuation
stockings have been found in someone’s luggage, and are
being stretched into a noose. War­, the kind where water floods
pavements and swans try to take
heavy iron anchors with their beaks. The anchor’s chains
might come unlinked
and stick in their throats.
Ships, so far from the centre.
Leda, unknowable in the stuffy interrogation room,
is exposed to uncomprehending ears.
The weightless cry of children under the open sky.

Europe tries to open up its tight veins,
its tight waters. Above the small continent
swollen eye bags – the lines
of its capillaries contract in
the eye map. It’s impossible to
send it, postal deliveries are
interrupted, and birds have forgotten
that art. Water is retained in the eyes,
effusions slip away from the continent.

I only have half of my luggage
in this room yellow with history,
the city is locked down, except for the water.
The water’s heart is white from the work of swans.
Confused fountains overflow the squares.

Paris, July 2006
 
Translated by Ana Petkovšek & Anthony McCann
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