Linden Trees in Place of Air
Near noon I was running desperately through a pristine desert.
My legs sank to the knee
in fresh white sand.
I was near fainting from thirst and dream, flies rustled
like wildflowers heavy with dew, sizzled in the morning,
and far, far off, a wolf's lone howl could be heard.
Some human dwelling must be near, I told myself, or maybe
a well close at hand.
But there was only white desert, desert and almost ripe corn,
linden blossoms ravishing my nostrils, and above all
a wolf's whimper exploding from inside me.
I was running north like a phantom, like a mole
that clung sharp-clawed to a yellow tree root;
I was blazing a trail in the desert of letters
each carved into a clay brick,
along the scent of a road running toward, not light, but linden trunks,
their sweet soft skin in place of air,
in place of dwelling or well.
It's raining again in the Balkans of my heart.
My bones decompose in the sodden air, my flesh
crumbles into the void like a lacustrine dwelling.
Our spherical mirror would doubtless be
a lid of soot,
our square mirror--boundless desert.
I'm marching through a plowed field in the pouring rain.
My legs keep sinking in a kind of greasy
black honey.
The trunk of my body shrinks, dissolves like a bar of soap
passed through thousands of hands.
Sometimes I glance at the sky,
expecting soaring hawks.
Huge raindrops fall on my retina and I see
people yet unborn,
I see this rain freeze into a glaze of ice and snow,
I see myself husking corn that, behold, only now
do I consign to the earth
I'm marching through a recently plowed field in the pouring rain
My hands fill with golden, enameled kernels
seeking quick burial in the earth.
My arms overflow with corn plucked from the void.
--Ioan Flora
translated from Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin and Elena Borta