^{for G. Ž.}

I.

A box zither in your hands

as if embroidering

as if sewing

where only in the threading

does reality

sounds.

II.

Perhaps you could embroider the grave

with eyes

and paths

and life

and make audible 

the invisible sounds of home

like doors closing

and the slowing

of the sought-for speed of life

while sewing the fates of soldiers

if I had to fight 

I would know what to sew

on your shoulders

on your throbbing vein

wrapped in muslin shawls

and who maintains peace in the world

why is the surface land so wide

where dogs have not seen

dug-outs

I kiss you

rest in peace –

the last bullet is now sewn in

and the path fated by stitching

III.

Mother’s face – 

the laced window 

          of the porch

where the world is born

through the curtain’s pattern,

down the sauna’s path,

sometimes returned to me –

traces of former homes,

trenches in the forest – signs

of mortal discharge:

this space balanced

between life and death,

home and sauna,

now and tomorrow,

between I am still here

and

it doesn’t hurt anymore.