SUMMER IS NOT SACRED Poem by Dorta Jagić

you relentlessly wanted everything to happen this summer.
we should convert and pray to the colors.
but, for me summer is not sacral.
it's true that all year long proselyte painters
are hatching beneath my vertebrae
but they waited for the spring storm to gather and emerge.
I begged you: freeze all your senses until the next spring!
at the dawn of the equinox the blood of allegiance will gush from our nostrils
and we will become the owners of Bethlehem's attics
with the stable of yellow-blue winged mares.
you couldn't wait. at the summer solstice you curiously glanced
into the rowdy grey suspicion of my words.
disappointed,
before leaving the last thing you saw
was a drunken pilgrim throwing a match onto the hay
and me with an apron, broom and blackened lips
clearing up those scorched Bethlehem ruins.