Lana Bojanić was born in Zagreb, Croatia, in 1992. She published poetry and short stories in various magazines in the Balkan region, Austria, Netherlands and USA. She’s the founder of the literary troupe 90+ that, after many years of preforming together, published a joint collection Someone yells, children grow up. A winner of numerous awards, her first solo poetry collection, Utilities for hunting and time travelling was published in 2020. She currently lives and works in Manchester, UK.
My Father’s December
The mornings start with a bag of oranges on the passenger seat Later he will cut them, squeeze them, But they don't know it yet, so they still smell nicely. He takes off and thinks about how In Czechoslovakia they believed that moonlight Can dull the razor blade: They walked unshaven and with intact wrists Every full Moon He doesn't know that in my hometown For over a hundred years now Rains melt the cathedral's towers In a metaphor for time or for love Nevertheless, he pays no attention to Angels at the roundabouts And the possibility to travel south He believes in mercy of the historic moment: He will never jump over the corpses in the street, Nor will he read medical prescriptions To his children instead of a good night story. On the cloudy sky, low horizon and Dark fields the only thing that shines Is your father's white shirt.
A sunny Sunday in the North
Flocks of elaborate beards push the strollers under the January sun In which guitars, cures for cancer and spaceships nap peacefully What a prize, a sunny Sunday in the north! Thin tendons of light stretch over the canal And today nobody will cry in the bathroom Or remember their grandparents somewhere far away Where people drink as if they want to melt something inside, Like they do with statues and church bells before the war With their translucent wives they will count the cities where it is summer now, Cities they will attach to the refrigerator with magnets, Cities they will name their kids after. They will promise to buy them a goldfish that will float, forever idle, In the regulated aquarium in the corner of the living room Out of which there is no need to jump. Today, one should enjoy themselves, because Tomorrow it will rain again, that is the rule, Hard drops will hit windows, asphalted roads And people and it will sound as if a thousand of journalists are typing on their computers all at once Breaking news about a country somewhere far away In which a civil war just broke out And now everybody's vacation tickets will go to waste.
‘We’ll miss the postman, love’
But I want to sit here a bit more! The Sun is so small, and the people are so tall I put my lipstick on every morning, but My lips are still two wooden matches Kiss me when I introduce you to my colleagues And what about that postman? I think they've even moved my photo Behind the ceramic fish or the Bible, That's why I have troubles falling asleep Let's go to the flea market or learn curling Let's go to the dinner organised by Christian youth And not think about our parents, not until the dessert Let's pretend we've just met That you don't know how the skin on my back Is chequered with fear like a coat lining That I don't know how you flirt with the postman Let's not speak the same language! Ask me in English: 'How do you do?' 'Que sera, sera' Ask me if my dad liked Shawshank Redemption, And about the smell of my mother's palms When she covered my eyes during sex scenes It feels like my teeth are growing again, love They'll try to hunt me down for ivory soon, The whole gangs of poachers and tooth fairies Let's stay here Let them think we went to wait for Your fucking postman, new IKEA catalogue And the reminder from utility company Let's trick them They don't know I can neither feel my feet Nor the clothespins on the fabric of my back anymore Might've been the cold? Might've been the empty chair? Or it might've been the bags under the postman's eyes In which I've packed all my belongings and Now I cannot find anything of value anymore.
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