after Tomaaž Šalamun,
A Ballad for Metka Krašovec
Deep below the bowels of a boat, cutting
through breakers no trouble, carting survivors
to god knows where, aware on a sunny day
of its sinking, so many years ago some have already
forgotten, you can see them: the cities
and piers, fun parks and parliaments, how they’re
in line to be punished. They last in a spasm, locked
in shocking ice. It glimmers a shade of blue, the same
hue for everyone, for the looters of nests and altars
as for dandies with a finger on the trigger, deep down,
where slackened wishes to be forgiven have tacked
like metal to ice, with a grimace of pain. The oldest
would know the song, it sounds like a face
from the fairy tales, pronounces the prophets different
from despots, although they all feel the cold, save
those who wanted to save themselves by climbing
the slippery crests of a slope to shear the surface
and swim. There, an old captain my country admires
dances on deck in his bare feet, and buttons from
blouses and whitish teeth are sprinkled all around,
Trieste—Vienna, September 2001
from Without AnesthesiaFind it in the library
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