Latvian Feature
more poetry
Inga Gaile
When it’s lunch break in all the churches, you still have sky’s wrinkledcheeks and the
webprints of swans in the clouds, same ones that willgive us down bedding.
When the fog and the dark cover the bridges,you still have the hands that see
everything and the whisper thatfinds its way over water when the sun flies away with
the swans.
When it’s lunch break in all the churches, you still have sky’s wrinkledcheeks and the
moment before darkness when the heart breaks and snowsparkles over the city.
the tram of winter’s last thaw-freeze clangs by
morning’s whistle scatters the bats of the shadowy dark
someonerecalls a dream about kissing red flames
but the day is nude,underfoot the crunch of departing sleep.
I awaken open my eyes unrein all words,
like a vat filled with beanstime spills out before us
memory tucks in the night and caulks overthe fear
the first tram jangles by,
city’s bright tear.
sorrow and a flickering thought
find refuge some place dark,
aflickering thought about friends
who ache over land-goingships.
through the sea rustle in the wheels of streetcars, through people’sgreen voices
warmth breaks through and strokes the heads of snowmenand snowwomen carrying
yokes with buckets, the shiny metal of cloudsfilled with trout with salmon the
confusion in pupils of eyes comesthrough the lips like a squeak and the glance
unfurls upward like areckless red scarf
confusion — silence of the universe
spring unhinged line up for smelt tinged with gold but don’t think thatthe marches of
your flaming glances will be forgotten, the skybreathes sun deliciously idle,
lusciously as if from a pipe blowsout clouds of down fiddles fribbles and dabbles
tickling the buds ontrees the old geezers
Translated by Ieva Lešinska
