Ivana Bodrožić

hrvaščina

Ellen Elias-Bursać

angleščina

O Marku mislim dok trčim.

Zimi mrak pada rano
pravim veliki krug oko kuće njegovih roditelja
njegov je život stao u moj.

Netko mi je poslao poruku.

Smrt kao i život uvijek
pronađe put;
tehnologija je samo jedan
od njih, kao na primjer,
sms o samoubojstvu.

Sjedim i čekam da mi dođe izgovor
za sahranu,
ali dolazi samo ono što je od njega ostalo:

imao je šest godina, nije znao reći
nesquik, njegova sestra i ja
tjerale smo ga ponavlja neku smiješnu riječ

od osmog razreda je markirao
i jako se zaljubio

duvao je kao što smo duvali i mi

jednom je prenoćio u policiji, tata ga je namjerno ostavio.

Dvije babe na groblju pričaju
o svojim bolesnim jetrama,
njegov život barem tri puta stane u njihov
one melju,
tragediju mladog života
namirisale su kao strvinari.

Njegova sestra i ja, u shoping autobusu za Graz,
ona se smije, moj mali glupi brat,
oženio se, s dvadeset dvije
cura je ostala trudna
beba se zove Pablo
previjamo se od smijeha,

te noći Pablov tata odlazi,
on ima samo četiri mjeseca
i sve što zna su glad, vlaga i suhoća
a kada je suh opet ne zna ni za što.

Nalaze ga danima kasnije
na napuštenom nogometnom igralištu.

Sliku ti daju da vidiš samo izdaleka,
ona mi o svemu priča, tako joj je lakše,
na slici se vidjelo, on je klečao.

Šuti. Tad prvi put pokriva lice rukama.

Trebao je samo ispraviti koljena.

Kad otvori dlanove kao drvene škure, preobražena
nastavlja, s tamnim svjetlom u oku;

Bog je tako htio, on zna zašto.

Bog izlazi kao duh iz procjepa nepodnošljive boli
boli koja toliko zamagli razum,
da Markov život koji stane u moj,
njegova zgrčena koljena i omču oko vrata,
učini sredstvom za svoj nejasan cilj.

Raj je možda najbolja fora,
koje se netko mogao sjetiti
kad više nije bilo načina
da se objasni besmisao.

O Marku mislim dok trčim
sve manje,
ljeto je.

© Ivana Bodrožić
Iz: In a sentimental mood
Zagreb: Sandorf, 2017
Avdio produkcija: Haus für Poesie, 2021

I think of Marko while I run.

In wintertime the dark starts early
I steer clear of the house of his parents
his life tucked into mine.

Someone sent me a message.

Death like life always
finds a way;
technology is just one
of them, like, say,
a text message about suicide.

I sit and wait for an excuse to come
for a funeral,
but all that comes is what was left of him:

he was six, he couldn't pronounce
Nesquik, his sister and I
made him repeat a funny word

he skipped class in eighth grade
and fell in love head over heels
smoked weed like we all did

once spent the night at a police station, his dad left him there on purpose.

Two old ladies by the graveside chat
about ailing livers,
his life might fit at least three times into theirs
on they natter,
like vultures they've latched onto
the tragedy of a young life.

His sister and I, in a shopping bus on our way to Graz,
she giggles, my nitwit little brother,
he married, at twenty-two
his girl got pregnant
the baby's name is Pablo
we doubled over laughing.

that night Pablo's dad left,
he was only four months old
and all he knew was hunger, being wet and dry,
and when he's dry again he doesn't know a thing.

Days later they found him
on an abandoned soccer pitch.

They only let you see the picture from afar,
she tells me about everything, this way she can bear it,
on the picture you could see him kneeling.

He's quiet. Then for the first time covers his face with his hands.

All he had to do was straighten his knees.

When he opens his hands like wooden shutters, transformed
she continues, with a dark gleam in her eye:

God wanted it that way, he knows why.

God comes out like a ghost from a gap of unbearable pain
pain that so fogs the mind,
that Marko's life tucked inside mine,
his bent knees and the noose around his neck,
become a means for his unclear goal.

Paradise is maybe the coolest thing,
that someone could cook up
when there was no longer any other way
to explain absurdity.

I think about Marko while I run
less and less,
it's summer.

Translated by Ellen Elias-Bursać