A WORKWOMAN OF WORN OUT KNEES: / RADNICA ISTROŠENIH KOLJENA
At four a.m., when other people are dead,
from the dead I rise
(be gentle, the land of theirs)
Across the water I walk
to the roughest island
I am alone and in company, like the fish
on the white counter of the factory surrounded by the sea:
the fish which, predictably,
smell of stale vaginas,
the fish which dare not say anything,
for I tear off their heads,
I lay down their flesh into gentle oil,
cover it with the tin tongue
It’s useless
to send them in trucks toward the inland:
when I return, others will be still dead
I will resolutely lie down in my bed,
count how much my day worth is:
fifty coins
Little tunas on their reverse
falling, splashing, squirming,
nothing will hurt us by morning
Tomorrow
I will be tearing off their heads, tearing off their heads
One day
I will be tearing off their heads