Goran Simic

IF

If on the subway my hand accidentally touched yours
on that merciless ride every evening back
to my cold bachelor apartment
perhaps you would look for my shy eyes
hidden under the cap
and think :
Is this the man who empties a pocket of silence into my
voice mail
a few times every day?

In the crowded train
nobody would notice me caressing a strand of your hair
that insolently smells of my pillow.
Nobody but you.
Perhaps for a moment you would think
that the world is full of lonely people
including the one
who has been sending unsigned Christmas cards
for years.

If I leaned on you tenderly
in that packed train full of tired or sleepy people
perhaps you would feel the fire in my skin
and wish to warm yourself one stop longer
on the shoulder of the shy weirdo
whose warmth reminds you of something
you have forgotten,
thinking :
The world is full of cold people with north in their bosoms
who fear touch might melt their ice.

I could have touched your hand if you hadn't got off
at the stop where you never get off.
I only needed a moment to show you
your earring
alive in my pocket all these years.
The same one I found in my bed
so long ago
before you forgot me.

But who knows if you would recognize it at all ?
You would think :
The world is full of lonely people
and lost earrings.

IMMIGRANT TALKS WITH PICTURE RIPPED FROM PORNO MAGAZINE

It's Sunday, Mary Lou,
most terrible day of the week when even empty bottles
look happy keeping company with the spiders under my bed.
They know nothing about my loneliness
shaped by wet pillows and crumpled sheets,
nothing about the emptiness that attacks me
while watching night programs on TV
with one hand on a lottery ticket
and another on the glass.

It's Sunday Mary Lou,
and I'm already tired talking with ancestors
hidden in the basket full of my dirty work clothes.
She's fake, they tell me every time I kiss your photo.
As if I don't know it.
Your long blond hair is not the same color as your pubic bush
which obediently lies under somebody's hand. Like a lamb.
And your big breasts don't seem like the place where some baby
can get some sleep with a drop of milk between its lips.
Even your phone number
printed at the bottom of your widely spread legs
is a fake.
Or belongs to someone I didn't need to call.

My neighbor's wife, the house next to mine,
seems happy walking with her kids on Sunday evening
-she can be seen in the red light district every night.
Even the tiny woman next door,
holding hands with her boyfriend who just got out of jail
says "Hello" on Sunday.
And I pretend not to know she's wearing a big hat
just to cover the dark bruises under her eyes.

Even my landlady's dog,
fifth in the last year,
walks lamely before licking my hand. On Sunday.
But my ancestors don't want to see that scene
and dive into the pockets of my work clothes.

It's Sunday Mary Lou, lonely Sunday
when life seems different
and my loneliness has the shape of an empty bottle
keeping company with spiders and crumpled lottery tickets
under my bed.

It's Sunday Mary Lou,
and nobody sees the moment when I put your photo
back in my to keep company with the picture of my darling
who once promised to wait for me \
until I come back.

Nobody can see my pale eyes watching two pale photos
not able to tell which one is my darling
and which one is you, Mary Lou.

It's Sunday. Lonely Sunday.

Goran Simic     

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