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Poem


I want to be a tiny mike on your violin

the gem that solves everything. I’d

love to be a Liz Taylor, rising up from the foam of every thing—


the Adriatic in commercials, techno-azure—dripping water n pearls—

plain matchless. I’d gone years in the service of the county


of L, one of its smaller cogs, who gets a windowless office—

worshiping through the frame

affectionately, behind the lens; a pleasant face. Don’t

wish me well. Don’t say you like me. Just slap

me on the ass at the end of the shoot— cause I


have never sat in a giant stiletto-shaped glass!

I’ve never been burned for, through the door, by a doe. At best

I was a dull ache, nostalgia—but don’t mistake me, I don’t pity

myself: I take


my checkered memory to the park on the weekend

and serve straw wine on it

“The Dishwasher’s Picnic,” and

the bigger the wound


the better I am for it.

I dreamed of clear waves like arches

an amusement park in the snow. I was fleeing

from the bad inverted R, & today


I’m asking myself

why am I so useless? Isn’t it your world I’m supposed to be changing?

Maybe if I were Liz, dripping pearl. At that moment, Liz Taylor

must have believed in the balance of culture and matter:


through the spell of pearl sweat & seawater—

O to feel the culture of your desire. To resurrect against your body like that.

To resurrect the body of your desire. This scullery maid is a freaking Messiah!


Even if it takes a very long time

wandering, sitting in the desert

taking in the heat

on the dunes… Until they’re not like unto breasts,

but dunes.

I’m so relieved I’m in love with you.


It’s like being on the other side of a big

old Mississippi


I can think into your face buffeted by video grain. You won’t let me watch

your videos but I’m watching your videos


it’s time I saw everything, plum just out of peach—


I love that your limbs are all smeared in your culture’s amber, history’s peach, this is

another kind of balance

of nurture and culture, the-nature-


of-time-meets-the-culture-of-the-inside, and

it’s the best beauty they ever made, the best one they ever, yet.

When I was five, at a sleepover


my little girlfriend Mojca and I said to each other

we were raping each other, because

we didn’t know a different word. Of course we were grounded.

The chewed Barbies were unspeakable. Is this where all the stupid shame furls from?


Is it that to get into a face

is to get close to a mike

that yells you back into the cavern of you, messes with your Pharaoh mask?


They say Liz & Richard had a pretty tough time

filming Cleopatra; what’s on the tape, though, is

gold.

But I prefer how you look in your wheelchair,


truly. Through the burl of purl, come hither


and you’re in front of me. Now you go right into me. You’re in me.

You’re on the other side, and our backs are touching.

We sleep… We’re the itchiness under the eyelids


and we’re passing over some docks

and the moon’s coming out and there’s

night blooms. It’s not too late


I say: tell me it’s never too late for this poem,

and then you go:




Ana Božičević