by Vesna Marjanovich
before leaving Sarajevo, April 21, 1995
Cold windy night
In a lonely station, the rain.
I clutch my bag and cry
In gray Belgrade.
It takes forever when I wait train
to take me out
of my life.
Roundabout of my mistake
in the brain underground.
That day I visit
your mom seals my destiny,
stick like a cachet,
my puckered wound.
Mother teacher, neat writing.
“I have a friend in the city you are visiting.
This address might help. Take it.”
Doe eyes gaze –
her knowing. These hands that bring a coffee mug.
The body that has carried you and nourished you.
I took the sip,
the worm liquid had taste
of your lips.
I let her ask me whatever. Her voice with perfect pause.
She listens.
How do I manage to leave Sarajevo in war?
And where do we meet each other?
Glance at her library.
“Anna Karenina” of course.
For a moment
her presence
and the train coming
gives a sense of a plan, relief.
She pulls out
your wedding album
and you stand there in front,
well balanced ski – coach
like you did on the enemy line.
And I stumble out
dug in my sorrow,
sobbing: back, back, back,
but drugging myself forward.
Then a train whistle sound
like a pretext:
New chapter, new chapter, new chapter.