Why Poem by Miroslava Odalovic

loading re-usable pain into the begs
of empty markets and under the eaves
bargaining some light with the passengers
I don't have the trader's eyes
and sometimes the left hand doesn't know
what the right one is doing
I am not pretending this day
has the streets for you to come
and ask me over and over again
about the price of my eyes

why

don't you take your diary page
to the first Harlequinne clown
who likes to eat newspapers
and drink milk bottled in
in the factory of lies
breastfed on the broken alphabet
I am not the person who can tell you outcomes
I've never been good at maths
and the teacher of geography
once said I'd get lost if I go as far off
as five kilometers from my house

why

I can't tell you these things
as you're looking for the signs of destruction
all around exter places
I could sympathetically say
I know how it feels
because my left eye many times does not know
what the right one is watching
but at least I've advanced that much to know
that all destruction takes place inside
that being obsessed with how to selflessly help other
can easily be the innermost self you cannot always avoid
as is cries for help

why

do you ask these things from me
as if I had all the answers in the world
that you'd shatter with self-oblivious silence anyway
once I've spoken of questions
I am an undereducated star gazer
who stares at them for the sake of their beauty
so if you decide to take them all
into your astrolab to tell us of our future
leave at least one free that will not have to say
anything