Poetry: Ani Gjika

MEMORIES

Julia Gjika

Translated from the Albanian by Ani Gjika

Memories
pretend to sleep.
I don’t touch them,
I don’t stir them.
If they wake up
they remind me
I’m a slave.

Let them lie
dozing.
How they quiver,
how they flirt
with consciousness,
taunt and hurt
one another,
till in duel, without gloves,
they turn on themselves.

 

THE RED EAST

Julia Gjika

Translated from the Albanian by Ani Gjika

Apartments.
Apartments
of red brick
or concrete.
Same old style
all through the East:
one bedroom,
one living room,
one bathroom,
one balcony;
two bedrooms,
one living room,
one bathroom,
one balcony;
three bedrooms,
one living room,
one bathroom,
one balcony.
A family of eight
or nine children,
one or two elderly in-laws
the mother, the father.
Good God,
life in communism—
astir inside a chicken coop.
Heartbroken
the woman of the house
washed and swept
herself unwashed
cooking in the bathroom
sleeping in the kitchen
the bedroom a storage
she couldn’t breathe in.
Was this the promise,
to eat
with a golden spoon?
The apartments
had ears,
wide mouths,
the apartments had eyes.
When you opened your mouth
they could see deep
into your intestines, your liver,
your neighbors had taken inventory
of all the junk in your stomach.
Those apartments
would sell you
for two bucks.