The Ones Who Don't Belong 2.
Poem By Liāna Langa
Leaves frost-bitten by a harsh night rustle between my fingers.
A rook siddles closer
to a cross painted mud-colour. A white pebble thrown against
the cheap granite slab summons an echo
of your voice. Here, fired by the passion and politics of lovers,
all transactions take place more swiftly
than in a market. An echo is like the sound of salmon spawning
as they rub their dulled backs, just more audible.
But one pigeon cock thrusts its beak straight into the heart
of another pigeon cock.
The grave-keeper Valerie smells of vodka and a paranormal life
under piles of leaves.
Although she grasps money with purple hands, it seems
more like she does so with yellowed chalk lips.
In the sky the clouds congeal into lumps
just like synthetic pillows in cheap hotels.
The hanging chapel key jangles in the Baltic wind like the money bag
of a wealthy man,
now we'll gnaw on baranka holes, while the leaf kopecks
madly race among the crosses.
In nether land, where one's place is shown by the pointing
of a shovel's handle, a handful of sand and a sob,
time digs down to the bone of bones and rejects whatever
was once kissed and offered up to the angels
At the foot, black-candle cedars now have fossilized.
Grieving accidentally, one grows vigilant.
Suddenly too tangible is non-existence, which can be so easily
approximated. My mouth is full
of salt pebbles, when I try to remind you of my name.
Translated by: Margita Gailītis