[WE DO WHAT? WE ARE INVOLVED IN SPACE,]

We do what? We are involved in space,
are silent, we let the dead sleep on.
We cut down trees, fence off compost,
pry open traps in which mice have come to grief.
Evenings, we take our dinners out to the garden,
bring brushwood back into the room.
We return it yellowed to the bonfire,
its sweet smoke billowing through our wardrobes.
In the twilight we look out at the wall,
and speak so as not to wake the dead.
Amidst the furniture we make love
with bodies, which are not the opposite of space.

–-Petr Borkovec, Czech Republic, translated from Czech by Justin Quinn

APOLOGETIC TELEGRAM
    For Georgi Rupchev

You remember of course: I was drunk
and kept begging you to kiss away my tears.
I wanted to stay with you that night,
but I was afraid you might cure me of all my guilt
without whose pretend-sweet burden I can’t live.
I weave my guilt into a rope ladder
by which, soundlessly, I get to God,
or at least to my corner of heaven…

I didn’t stay. Stupidly, inexplicably, I put on my mac
and made endless excuses.

You remember of course: we’re different.
Guilt before you is the most perfect step
to the top, where we’ll meet again.
I kiss you soberly and clumsily
but all the more ardently.
    Mirela

--Mirela Ivanova, Bulgaria, translated from the Bulgarian by Edwald Osers

LIFE

Life knows only
thorny extremes.
When not Jungle,
Desert.
It dreams no more.

And so, this September of
Red Ferns
wants only
Snow,
and Wolf;
aims at being bare,
frozen Immensity.

And Sun dreams
of Light pure and sharp,
blinding memory
of Bees.

While Night
remembers fondly
that first moment
of only night.

And so,
Never, Never,
or,
Always, Always,
Loudly beats my Heart.
Measuring
against those two words, unfortunately,
all desires.

--Bernardo Atxaga, Spain, translated from the Basque by Amaia Gabantxo