Miroslav Mićanović


You can hear voices of uncles
and their wives behind closed doors.

Voices thicken fast, like white lard,
resolute and sharp, more painful than winter
and coldness in Gunja for
the Republic Day in 1965.

Uncles are scolding
mother because
she spilled a bucket full of lard.

Warm breath of brandy, anger and rage
break through the nightfall.

And everything has its measure:
slaughtered pigs, boys and drunken

He is aware he should enter
and tell them it’s enough.
He dares not to peek,
let alone to say something.

The only thing he could do,
much later, was to draw on

the white solid stuff a mark of
sorrow, regret, whatever you
can write down when you walk
on things long gone
and things that will never be.