Nikolina Andova Šopova

Today I will not go down the same road 

I will turn left 

I may see a child 

whose ball flies away on the street 

and I will return it to him, as my day 

always politely returns 

the loneliness in the playground 

when I  kick it

high

I am a tourist in my body 

and I have no map in my hands

Someone that will accidentally pass by

will show me the way to the museum quarter 

to the large parks, the square 

to the river that flows in my name 

What do I do in the meantime 

I'm drinking macchiato in a quiet coffee bar

and thumbing through the daily newspapers 

written in a language I never learned 

Always, I remember, when I would be returning from a trip 

the sky would brighten, the sun would fall on the marble angels 

and only then would I notice

the smiles on their faces

Always be careful, knock before you entering 

you should know that in the rooms inside you 

there's always someone 

Stay longer in those where you are silently welcome  

where you will enter in and sit 

in the long silence 

Some will ask for your name, will invite to you sit down

will offer cookies, will hold your coat 

will come running after you if you forget your umbrella 

Some you will see only through the wink of silence 

of the forever closed doors 

and often you will not know whether they are your guests 

or you are simply not at home

Let's escape from time 

that threatens us with a pulled bow 

and takes aim with the small arrow 

This is what I wanted to tell you: 

- If I pass with my hand on a geographical map 

 I will not touch the mountains nor the peaks 

I will not get wet nor fill my hands with soil 

so tonight when you pass your hand through my body 

you won't find dust or wind, neither my name

that is always reborn

Because I do not know how much time had passed tonight 

minute, hour, year, lifetime 

maybe 

Sometimes when I look up and down 

I do not know which trail seems longer 

one on the jet plane in the sky 

or the one that the snail had left behind

Blessed are the distances and the places to which we will never go

and the tight smooth nightgown drying on the balcony across from us
Blessed is death that remembers the addresses

of all our unsent letters
and the gods we try but cannot reach
like the cobwebs in the corner between the bed and the wall
Blessed is the Moon served on the sky

like a dish of someone who dines alone all the time
and the Sun reminding us
one can love from afar
Blessed is the freedom and our illusion that we have touched it

like we touch life through screens and  displays
Blessed is the past that sticks to us
like long-lasting lipstick on our mouths

and the future besmeared by red stains

resistant even to the most advertised of detergents
Blessed are the seas which we will never swim across
because of the water landmarks and the theories of safety
Blessed is the soft hair of a girl

that nearly, very nearly touched me

in a bus crowd

I kneaded my daughter from flour and stars
and she was born on the day my grandfather died

And now they are peers
Her life
and his death

I watch my daughter growing and changing
and I ask myself if death grows and changes as well
I follow her getting taller and maturing
and I wonder
if my grandfather’s death over the years
grew taller and matured
does she become of age
like the gentle neck of my daughter
covered with a scarf

I listen to her at night
while the bugs and the fireflies
tickle her in her sleep

I saw my skeleton 

on an x-ray image
My ribs are the same as everyone else’s
prison bars
holding my body in solitary confinement
The skull, I saw, is similar to all human skulls
only our faces given to us for distinction
And my hands are hands just like any other
branches full of dry leaves and overripe fruits
Only my voice is missing in the image
still wanting from me his picture, his proof
searching for his invisible double
fleshless, faceless, boneless
begging me to stick a needle in him
and find a vein

Fill each other’s cup,

but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread,

but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous,

but let each of you be alone,

even as the strings of a lute are alone

though they quiver with the same music.

                         Khalil Gibran

In one article on the internet

I read that many couples know

each other’s e-mail passwords

and that they give them to each other

as a token of trust and security

Had a been wise as Gibran

and I’m not

I would’ve added:

“Send e-mails to each other

but do not give away your passwords

for the man and the earth feed off each other

and yet, they keep the secret of their beginnings; each to their own.”

I found a photograph in the basement

of the place of my house

before it was built

when it was only a sketch
in the hands of the architects

And I know approximately since when it exists
the year of construction is

engraved in the concrete in a corner of the yard
but I do not know how long before
it did not exist

and before the
bushes

weeds and the sky existed

that fade in the photograph
Is the non-existence longer

than the existence

and how old is the nothing

From the dust that rose
of the photograph

like commas in the air

I coughed

They prepare the dead body
Like when one returns a read book
to the library
Patching the torn pages, wiping his skin
and the fingerprints of the dream when they fell asleep
reading
They remember the good parts, the powerful quotes
the parts of the story they will remember
and those that will disappear before being forgotten
They think of the stains
they left throughout it
and they lie to their conscience that no one will ever
see them

Can I eat
this plane sandwich
that my sister left
when returning from her journey

This sandwich which has flown
over two continents and one ocean
which has flown far more than I will ever
walk or swim

Maybe I will taste a little of the clouds
if I try this bread
which has been higher than the land beneath it
higher than all states, cities and people
with invisible edges and borders
Which has been higher than all heights
I will ever reach
like the grains of wheat in it that have seen more
than the pilots, the stewardesses
and all the passengers
under the plane

Will my stomach digest
the whole sky

Everything here is pierced
the sky we spy through the lenses of the telescopes
and the folders on our office desks
the little windows in the ship cabins when we
travel
and the massive walls in the temples in which we pray

And the blankets of the secret lovers burnt from cigarettes
are pierced
and the world we see through the rings of the ancestors
the memories like cookie-dough when we shape
the targets in humans forms on which we practice shooting

everything, everything is pierced
the spy-holes on the doors closed for beggars
the earth from the ant’s destroyed homes
god who we search through the circular openings of the domes

There's a fan 

with a map of the world on it 

that's been folding into me for years

The land is slowly narrowing

the volcanoes fading away

the rivers stopping, the lighthouses freezing

the deserts wrapping up

like dusty carpets

One day I will open the fan

and the world will spread inside me 

together with the sky and the wings 

of the big birds

We step into things and already we are part of them
Has anyone told us that the seashells are the fingernails of the  sea

that our fingernails become seashells once we enter in it
that our stomach is a sea turtle when we swim
that our breasts are jellyfish
our eyes are little fish separated from the shoal in theshallows

our hair turns to algae when we submerge it
our skin is moss,

our hairs are the weeds on the
rocks

swaying in the water like wind-blown
Our ears are little seahorses, our fingers the tentacles of the octopuses

being offered as specialty in expensive menus

We dwindle
like sea stars drying on docks

which will be hung on a wall somewhere as decorations

like stopped light, a signed souvenir

At night
my body opens, slowly
like a tridimensional pop-up coloring book
out of which spring
trees, buildings, Sun, mountains, people
closing in the morning
and out of me still stick out
branches, windows, shadows, rocks, hands

I am sure that at this very moment
throughout the world numerous doors are being opened
bottles of old liqueurs are being opened
rusty drinking fountains, jewelry boxes
the petals of cacti in the deserts
windows are being opened, stuck drawers
containing important documents
newspapers are being opened, souls are being opened
like corks on wine barrels
boxes of candies are being opened, right now,
in whoever knows how many houses and restaurants
the rocks are being opened, invisibly,
slowly moving away from the center
of the ocean reefs
sealed humanitarian packages are being opened
somewhere around the world, perhaps
wallets are being opened, books, umbrellas
at this very moment

it is raining somewhere, it must rain somewhere
right now, this night

as we close our eyes, opened
to the roads and borders