Majda Šodan 

Translator

It is exactly 18:00 hours in Minneapolis.
In the suspects waiting room I sit next to a plump black lady.
She tried to smuggle "food, snakes and insects" into the USA.
I am, on the other hand, a poor bride hunting for a husband.
Mr Kai peers down at me. 
He opens my bag brimming with dowry.
A white manuscript sticks out suspiciously.
He wants to know why I have 200 pages typed in some strange language.
That is a fascinating reconstruction of the life
of our Lord the Saviour - I say to myself.
I shiver and perspire.
I accept the role of a terrorist-bride.
An hour later someone unlocks the door.
Suddenly everything smells of palm oil.
My feet sink into the airport carpet.
I discard the iron prosthesis of my homeland
as I slide into a pink mercy.

Thoughts recline on objects –
the heavy ones lay on oaks, the light ones descend onto lime-tree leaves –
others clatter like a typewriter underneath
the bark
 
Lovers appreciate this way
of life where termites disregard the bumps
of notorious recipes of love
 
feeling iron letters
underneath the temples of loved ones
catching the last of the hurried commas
running like ants out of mouths –
love is both cold and warm
 
lazy in the Sun
written out in routine handwriting
across utterly disinterested leaves

Crickets chirp all through the night.
The sky gently envelops the earth. 
God is intimate and welcomes his guests
by patting them on the shoulder.
 
Fireflies shine like 120 Watt light bulbs.
 
From Juliet's balcony I observe the animals.
People do not live here.
Not in those houses or high-rises.
They sleep in the logos of their companies
as they descend from stress into the subterranean
picking fruits that hang from the telegraph lines
– upside down.

High above pages of the sky rustle
Down below a customs officer wants your fingerprint
The stamp of your family-tree
On your tourist visa application.
 
The yellow Balkan moon shines across my face.
I forgot to turn it off as we flew over the ocean.
 
The family next to me has more experience.
They hid their sad pentatonic up their sleeve:
Showering the official at the counter
With a healthy dose of Californian smiles.
 
Behind the barricade, cheerful old people
with candy-floss haircuts
extend their arms to take me to heaven.