Denis Škofič

As mating calls sound,
young deer
sprout handtlers from their foreheads,
handtlers with splayed,
stiff, and greedy fingers.
As mating calls sound,
young deer challenge each other,
handtlers shaking handtlers,
fingers grasping fingers.
As mating calls sound,
brawls break out
until the weaker fighter yields,
or loses a hand, dropping it
aside like a peace offering rebuffed.
As mating calls sound,
the most extravagant handtlers win,
handtlers with long fingers that easily
pass through the female’s coat.
As mating calls sound,
the biggest handtlers win,
those best able to cradle
the female in their palms.
As mating calls sound,
even deer skulls
hung on walls grasp at
luscious flesh with their bony hands.
 

The adults’ voices wondered where the head had gone.
The colour of the light seemed to justify the phrase:
sun cut throat. A sense of dignity lingered in the air,
mingled with incense, an infusion of skin, spices and blood.
While he was letting blood, somebody had to stir it vigorously,
so it would not coagulate. Soon the air would grow warm with 
baking blood,
and only then the hacking of the flesh would proceed, the hacking 
into pieces
like those shown by the periodic table of elements at the butcher’s 
shop.
By then, however, we’d be deep in the forest, the crunch
of fallen leaves beneath our feet, the buzzing of flies stirring the air,
drowning out the world of adults.
The silty scent of damp would fill our noses.
We’d argue over who would be Jack, who would be Ralph and Roger 
and Robert,
who would be Eric and Sam, and who would play the role of Simon.
Almost everyone would want to be Jack, but you’d get Simon’s part.
In madcap horror, you’d run through the forest on all fours.
Kill the pig! Cut her throat! Kill the pig! Bash her in!

Kill the pig! Cut her throat! Kill the pig! Bash her in!
Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!
In a cloud of flies, our black thoughts swarmed around the pig’s head
that Jack had stuck on a tall pole in the middle of the forest.

For as long as I can remember, there has been a swallow’s 
nest in the corner of the barn, right under the ceiling. Full of 
chirping every spring and empty every winter, but always there, 
in the corner of the barn, right under the ceiling.
Grandma was milking one of the many cows, with a black 
and white shawl tied under her neck that always reminded me 
of a swallow hugging and brooding an ostrich egg. Grandma 
was always silent, while Grandpa nagged without end. When 
Grandma died, shortly after my first communion, Grandpa said 
she had been so afraid of life that she stuck her head in the sand 
like an ostrich. I added, “Not just her head, Grandpa, but the 
rest of her body as well.” That was when he hit me for the first 
time. It was after the funeral, at the repast. As Grandpa shovelled 
manure in the barn, griping loudly about the cows, which had 
been dwindling from year to year, he talked about how swallows 
bring the spring from distant Africa. When I asked him how 
he knew that it was from Africa, he called me an idiot for not 
noticing that they were black as negroes and that their white 
bellies, unexposed to the blazing African sun during the summer, 
indicated that they used to be white. At that time, Grandma was 
still alive, and my first communion came soon after.
Grandpa said that swallows return every year and that those 
that visit us are always of the same kin. Even now, many years 
later, they come, black from the summer and carrying spring in 
their claws. Still they come, and an empty barn hangs from the 
swallow’s nest.

They dressed us up as infantrymen,
shoved muskets and flintlocks in our hands.
Sent us off from doorway to doorway,
from hamlet to hamlet.
We danced to military marches,
crooning:
Turnips fat and flax stalks tall,
Lent’s a-coming, all y’all.
Don’t drink water, drink some wine,
don’t eat meat, but turnip’s fine.

We shot with our eyes.
We looked with our blanks.

We dressed up as soldiers,
took rifles and revolvers in our hands.
We went from door to door,
from village to village.
We danced to military marches,
singing:
From door to door,
from street to street
we bring you spring
and laughter sweet.
So give us please,
we ask of you,
three cakes, some meat,
a coin or two.

We shot with our eyes.
We looked with our blanks.

We dressed them up as soldiers,
shoved machine guns and sidearms in their hands.
We sent them from door to door,
from town to town.
They danced to military marches,
singing:
Trili-lee, trili-lee,
do you know us – who are we?
Tralala-tralala,
we’re all wearing masks, ha-ha!

They shot with their eyes.
They looked with their blanks.
 

You bare yourself, discarding your clothes and shoes, and wade into 
the river.
You have to undress, to disrobe and take off your shoes,
because you know how heavy clothing gets when soaked,
what a burden shoes become when infiltrated by water.
You bare yourself and wade into the river. Walking barefoot over 
sand and pebbles,
you feel them being carried away from under your feet, grain by 
grain, stone by stone,
feel that it’s not just the river that’s flowing, but also its bed.
You wade in the river, reaching between rocks with your hands,
reaching into crevices, under sunken trees and their roots,
reaching for fish, their scaly bodies, knowing however,
that any scaly body that you touch could also be a snake.
You’re well aware of this, resigned to what might happen.
In any case, you are by now immune to venom,
immune thanks to the many bites you’ve already received.
Your arms are full of bites,
your arms a nest of bites.
But perhaps you’re not wading into the river for the sake of fish,
not to search for them in their hiding places,
feel their brute force
as you hold them by the tails with both hands,
and they drag you on, even against the current,
until you manage to subdue them with your bare hands.
Perhaps you’re wading into the river for the snakes,
for their bites
that lurk between the rocks,
in crevices, under the sunken trees
and their roots.
Your arms are full of bites,
your arms a nest of bites.
Your arms.