after Croatian poet Olja Savicevic Ivancevic
Back when I knew how to speak
every time I’d utter a syllable
the rain wouldn’t drum or rumble
against the asphalt of my street
but tango along with my consonants.
Generally in a low, firm tone,
and regardless of the weather,
the World Cup Finals, or barba Joško
in the courtyard ever-replacing rusted bolts
on his skinny bicycle as Mrs. Tomic preens
violets, petunias, and her varicose veins.
Like a ten ton truck storming through Ucka tunnel,
I’d rise above giant TV antennas, white laundry clapping
like gloved hands, over terracotta roofs, above
Kvarner Bay and the Istrian peninsula. I’d speak,
in a same sentence, of fallen gods and funny bones,
about Mamma Roma and Les Quatre Cents Coups.
Once, on the outskirts of Rijeka, I found a dump—
piles of unanswered and unsent texts—
stacked like toilet seats: some playful couplets,
horny invites, a careful thank-you-but-no.
fiction poetry "fact" photography