Translated by Rawley Grau
Pajamas must be ironed to a crease, towels folded in half, the bed cover fragrant with a breeze that blows at just the right strength, the curtains concealing and revealing enough for the old lady’s well-kept luxury to be seen and not seen—as the blade of the flatiron keeps unruliness in check, as the palm interrupts the laundry’s springtime dance, as a finger reaches for a large-print story and leaves the dark red mark of a tiny insect, as the unpruned cherry tree stands solidly before the window. And the room shuts its eyes… With darkness comes the thought that the bodies in the photographs will step out of their frames and come to our bed to warm their frozen feet. We were all cold when we were little, you will tell me once more on the threshold of dream, when I’m up to my ankles in the icy Soča River, which is beautiful and doesn’t like me, and I will never be able to move again.
Pubished by Talisman