Milica Mijatović
Strawberries
Originally published in The Louisville Review
We ate them in the field by the stream
after old man Jocika passed. Funerals,
something we were good at. Someone
made a joke about Jocika’s mangled hands,
the way he would pretend to eat his fingers,
master of the noses & thumbs game.
He used to make us laugh. He used to tell us
stories about how he lost his fingers, each
finger a different story, and each story
different every time. The ring on his ring finger
choked his finger to death; he woke one morning
to a missing thumb, searched for days, found
it in his backyard, riddled with ants; he won
first place in a pinky finger beauty contest,
was asked to sit still for a mold, couldn’t wait
long, so he cut his pinky off, donated it,
and now it sits in all its glory in a museum
in Helsinki. His contribution to western society.
We grew up when we realized what actually
happened to his hands, and some time after,
his heart burst, the same way strawberries do
when you bite into them just right.
Monday
Originally published in Barely South Review
Wear your moon dress tonight,
the one that makes people believe
in women on the moon, of the moon.
We’ll go skiing without our poles,
glide right into the ocean,
laugh all the way down. Poseidon
will greet us with wine & stories,
and you’ll ask him to take us
to Atlantis, but he’ll tell you,
Moon Girl, you don’t belong in the city,
and you’ll tell him he’s not a very
good host. So we’ll leave, climb
a ladder all the way up our favorite
tree, and I’ll count how many
times you say the word rise
before you rest your head on a branch
and ask me if I think our tree
can feel your skin the way you
can feel its bark. I’ll take your hand,
draw a balloon in your palm,
kiss you goodnight, and watch you float
away, moondancing as you go.
