“Zapis” by Adem Garić
Translated by Mario Frömml (02/20/2019)
In the mornings I call my mother.
Or in the afternoons, on my way back from
the mosque; the scent of blossoms rushes
through a crack in my car window.
White tree tops line the streets
like the kind words I often miss.
It dawns Here when
Bosnia prays the zuhr.
A day is at its zenith when Their
maghrib brings it to its close.
Time is Here a gold dust.
Prospectors all over the place pitch
their tents on the slopes of their days.
Gold, burried in the pits of time,
is running out, ever so dwindling.
I notice that the sky is blue,
and green is the grass, the soil
so wet, right after the rain.…
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Sometimes I think that there’s a secret order to which certain baristas belong – only the painfully hip ones, mind you – which gives them insider tips on foam steaming, coaching on the right attitude to pouring, and special workshops on moustache trimming. I like to imagine that they meet in an underground bunker somewhere, or perhaps a church basement. Membership is, of course, rarefied. Admission is by invitation only, and brothers-and-sisters-in-coffee are sworn to secrecy for life.
What do they discuss in their masonic jar meetings? The first order of business must surely be hair. Everyone is aware of that certain cadre of baristas who always don immaculately coiffed hair. I think of them as the deliberately-messy hair brigade. What was it they used to say in West Village and Lincoln Park coffee shops? …
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During an interview with Donald Glover, also known as Childish Gambino, the creator of This is America, he is asked to “explain what’s happening during the video.” Gambino simply replies with, “No, I feel like it’s not my place to say that,” leaving the video up for interpretation. He implies that defining the meaning of the song would defeat its purpose, as the true value and theme of the song is derived from the variation in interpretations and what viewers choose to focus on. This is America, an artistic masterpiece released in 2018, used film and lyrics to portray a hard-hitting message about the frightening reality of the black experience in America and how it’s masked by the media’s portrayal of black Americans. Throughout his career, Gambino has been known for his symbolism in complex discography and visual genius, making this one of his hit singles, considering its dire message and ability to spark a national conversation.…
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“Thank you, Dad,” Kazhi said when Bruce handed her the bowl of porridge, because that was what he wanted her to say. Day by day, it felt more true. Thank you for only bringing food. Thank you for letting her live.
Beside her, Kazhi’s “sister”—white and blond to her black and brown—said thank you fervently. There was a time, not too many months ago, when Sarah had spoken of escaping. Had spoken of her parents, and the outside world.
Now, she spoke of pleasing their father. Now, she spoke of love.
To Kazhi’s other side, sitting slumped in the same manacles, was a dried-out corpse. Lakisha. Kazhi’s heart panged to remember the girl she had admired for years, the girl she had hoped would someday see her as more than friends, but Kazhi’s eyes were as dry as the stale air around them.…
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I thought we wouldn’t get the timing
right when
she stopped eating
I tried chicken
bison dried lamb lung
one day I had nothing
she wanted
she turned away
disappointed
then she stopped drinking
on her last walk
she dragged us through the meadow
to the dog pond and stared at the water
watched the dogs run …
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That cold shock of hot pain blinds, disorients, frenzies the heart so the eyes and ears throb to the same accelerating siren—life hurts, life hurts, life hurts.
My earliest fear-stained memories have nothing to do with ghosts or demons or creaking floors behind flimsy locked closet doors. They’re half-recalled acts of self-destruction, word associations of seemingly innocuous causes and unforgettable effects. Car door, crushed fingers; bike ramp, skinned knees and elbows; katana blade, sliced thigh; oil slick, cracked skull. That which did not kill me did chill me like an injection of embalming fluid to the right carotid artery. How quick we are to deny our injuries, our faults, the potential consequences of what we’ve done. But that whisper of, How bad could it really be?…
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With the harsh kiss of midnight,
bruises like blooming lilac, the blinding
embrace of jasmine, and the ache of beaten-down
shoulders, I’ve reached into a hunter’s moon
and pulled blood, black as murder, for our Eucharist.
I want to preach the sunless morning,
invoke the holy rite of the tabby cat’s
wandering and the acidic smoke of fireplaces
from a dozen neighborhoods, to ease
the chilled breeze, the salt air, and the sea.
I’ve testified to traffic lights and peeled
layers of moonlight, thin as onion skin,
so cats and mockingbirds, possums and raccoons,
the entire congregation of the nocturnal
can raise up a chorus of blood and smoke
and blossoms from their sewer dens, their treetops,
to your doorstep where we share
the spoils of another day.…
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