Tuesday, 6 May 2014

Shell - Indrė Valantinaitė

Since the time I moved away from you,
I slide along the ground like a snail
on whose slimy body fragments
of my shell still stick.

Behind me, I leave an insentient trail of ooze.

A million hotels in the world—of ice, ivory, rock salt—
washed in the seas of foreign tongues, faces, habits—
would hide me, would open their doors.

I would return to where, twenty years ago, I prodded the dead jelly:
the color of water and limpid cloud.
On that beach, I did not yet wear my bikini top.

My fingers penetrated its formless body—
Plasticine.

To return would mean "to start everything anew",
to glue oneself together from the first words,
from the nails of one's toes.

There, where my heart was—a sharp shard of glass
over which muscle will forever weave its petals...

Until, with every pulse it will hurt less,
reminding me less: of guilt, origin, my native tongue.

Indrė Valantinaitė (Born 1984) Lithuania
Translated by Rimas Uzgiris

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