Bread 1972

Poem By Laurynas Katkus

It smells of gas and ferment.
Obliquely across the pavement,
Vans: oblique letters,
red teats on the underbelly.

Smoldering people
unload
one more generation of babies,
curse ritually.

Black, blind bricks
don't betray
when the blockade is over;
abruptly, like an odor.

It's half past five. In the gardens
behind the city, it's drizzling,
and along the avenue, caraway seeds
are scattered.

Half past five. Half-gods,
we're deep in the bread,
not yet risen, not yet touched
by the palms of steel and the sun.

Translated by Sam Witt

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