Exile
translated from Slovenian by Andrew Zawacki and the author
Like lover’s juice spat
by a woman for hire, they’re driven by
desperate, radiant light, far away
down the deserted plains,
to columns of people traveling, tired,
past the ruins of town hall
and the cathedral, past walls
that barely differ from the stones themselves
covered by moss, past the meadows
where trespass is not allowed.
Crossing the former trenches,
the weakest among them
had seen the towers of smoke rising
from camp fires under the forest line.
Their translucent eyes reflect
only shadows of clouds gliding over
the narrow trails they’re walking
down, they conjure pastures
and fertile valleys, moments of sheer delight,
they dream of large estates, expertly manicured.
Water sources camouflaged by the coarse
facade of rocks, they stand at the edge
of a steep ravine that flats their echo out,
like a blasé god with slack fists,
and dazed. Keep their eyes closed,
on a fragile crag they slough their jackets,
patched together of rough flax, and lie down
on their backs, in comfort, vests slither
over their heads, their trousers over their ankles
drop to a quivering pile. Naked
under familiar gray, in the narrow
funnel of mountains they see it,
for the last time: these drugged women
and children, with faces of stillborn
animals, the big moon above, a small
village below, and me—we all need to know why.