The Letter

I tell my father I've sent him something.
He says he didn't notice anything
In the mail-box, but will go down again
Just to see if a letter is maybe stuck
Behind the junk of publicity.

While he is checking, I stay on the phone,
Listening to the crackling of the aether
In the receiver, waiting at the other end
Of cables, air waves, and signals that go
Above and below the oceans, alone.

I think of him putting his glasses down
In the middle of the tiny apartment
In the second-last building before
The carton bastions of a Gypsy settlement
On the south bank of the east-bound Danube,

I think of him unlocking the door (once),
Leaving it ajar (and all the cooking
Smells from the neighbours rushing to enter),
Then in his slippers crossing the landing
(Clean but with the chipping-off plaster),

Descending the first-floor stairs, hand on the
Patched and mended plastic-topped railing,
With the narrow door to the basement on the left
At the bottom (the faded warning about
The placement of rat poison still half-attached).

I think of him passing by the door
Of the ground-floor neighbour (flooded
With each heavy rain charging in from the downhill
Street), until he finally reaches two rows
Of wooden mail-boxes, set somewhat askew.

By now it doesn't matter if he will find
That letter, or walk all the way back
With empty hands: we will have travelled
That distance thoughtfully side by side,
We will have spent a full minute together

Bent on the same task: keeping each other
The second-best company -- that of the mind.

Failure of Imagination

Thinking of Mirjana, who died yesterday,
And Dragana, who was 17.


You feel you are untouchable,
The offspring of your parents' dreams,

You live forever, many times --
Your simple newness a guarantee
Of silly invincibility.

Then comes the naked waking.

If you are Dragana, you realize,
(At 17) that you won't have
The next birthday, and you write,
(In hospital) a short statement
(As short as your life) on injustice,

To be read at your funeral.
Who read it? I can't remember.
At first (being 16), I refused
To go, but then changed my mind;
(The last thing she'll have, my mother said).

If you are Mirjana, you spend
A few measly months squirming from
Indefinite pain on your couch, nursed
By your old father because no
Hospital will take you (a hopeless

case, they never say but imply);
In fact, not even 911 will
Respond to you, the second-last
Day of your life, and only
An old people's home accepts you

(At 40), where the next day you die.

Alone, cheated, and defeated?
Hard to tell. I wish I could
Imagine all your grief finally
And redemptively evaporating
Into relief.