POEM BY ALEXANDRA BAKONIKA

MY BAGGAGE

Violent acts and tragedies

aren’t foreign to me

I’ve lived them as if

through fire and steel

if you search my body you will

discover their deep scars

I carry in my baggage

darkness, shadows and grief

I have certificates

introductory letters

and trials I have endured

and I can claim and enjoy

the sunlit and joyous events

the encounters and my immersion into joy

rarely experienced

become a right and gained time

I never feel guilty for euphoria felt

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Three Riders

The red horse, the white, and the jet-black.

The blonde rider with wide forehead rode

the first horse; the brunette rider with his long

eyelashes rode the second; the dead man with

his stony knees rode the third horse; They left

and the cloud was left amid the poplars.

When night fell, only the dead man returned

with a red scarf tied around his head.

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INCIDENTALLY

Exchanges and repayments. We didn’t cheat anyone.

We weren’t cheated either, no. We read clearly all

our history in the passing of a bird.

Then, of course, as always, we needed bread and

salt, the smile of a sensible woman to add

to our evening sleep in a temporary house with

three strayed dogs which barked all night long

guarding not us but the house.

That way we were guarded too until next dawn.

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