My body is a tired storage, a space too narrow to hold memories. A camper van and a cowbell tied around your ankle, while in your dreams you kept running away naked along a highway.
There is one more Paris, just near the desert. Its surface equals four years of walking, enough time to turn a spine into an abandoned rail track,
fit the memories onto an eight millimeter tape, which is why I remember you only as the scars on the emulsion of a cassette pushed into the mouth of a video-recorder.
When we named our son Hunter, I didn't know I'd track you down following a trail of bank account numbers.
There are loves resembling the Big Bang. Their epilogue can fit into a long telephone call, the black hole of a handset. Such monologues are different, but always begin with the words:
"I knew these people, these two people."
From the poetry book "Paris, Texas" by Vladan Krečković (PPM Enklava, Belgrade, 2020). Translation by Kruna Petrić.
Series #10
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