Milica Milenkovic was born in 1989. in the Serbian city of Nis. She acquired a master’s degree in Serbian and comparative literature at the University of Nis. She published two collection of poems: Smaller that a palm (2010) and Via Militaris, Via dolorosa (2013). Her work also includes a novel Homunculi (2010) and a book of literary criticism by the name of Critical interpretations (2016). She edited the Collected works of Gordana Todorovic (2018) and the Collected works by the School of active reading and creative writing. She received numerous awards in the field of literature and literary criticism.
A mother will, at Christmas,
A mother will, at Christmas,
the dead under the threshold
a crossroad and a guidepost
LOVE IN THE TIME OF PRIDE
And the night before I dreamed of you
I dreamed you writing to me
You ask me whether my nuptials were
I woke up in the day of your birth
whether your nuptials were.
our apple on the roof is withering.
We dreamed one another before our birth
We lowered the flag of our country
Down the casements of my windows
The night was burning off the white towels
And the flags in the hands of the groomsmen
Drums and zurlas made us a dervish.
We were spinning 1* together
Until the gates of this city attracted us
The flags burned in the name of false freedom
The Jericho trumpets from the ruined windows
And then we spinning as well
we were spinning like they did it
We have lowered at half mast
And we closed all our windows forever.
I’m showing by my finger the way to our house
through the glass of a car in which one is your hand
always on the steering wheel
and the other among my legs.
and I lead to our country,
we are entering our house,
And before that I offer you a dog house.
But I’m not a dog, you say, and you’re my bitch,
and bring me once inside,
our house has no doors and windows,
you’ll lift me up against the wall
you like to peeled lime bi stucked in my skin
You say this house is wrecking,
I know it’s falling apart,
and we are swing left and right
the time is peeling the beams like a rabbit,
and this is nostra time nostra terra, small,
you are drawing on my back
a house with doors and windows
which is painted in white,
while you are walking our dog.
But we are in someone else’s house
I’m taking paper and making a plane
I paint the window with coal
in the window you with a raised arm
I remain leaning against a broken window
There was once a plate on the table.
and the eternal question:
and a bag full of gold coins
To switch the plate as a shell?
creates itself from the blister.
To eat this seed from which
sprout out scales for salvation,
emerge from the bottom of the sea
where the pensive princess sits,
And you would like Brankica.
That girl from a little apartment
over the crossing of our town.
A girl with long brown hair.
And you would have liked Brankica if you just had met her.
You’d love her while you’re going that street
than meet her mom and ask for Brankica.
And she says Brankica has gone.
Is she has gone to her father?
(Brankica is a child of divorced parents)
She did not go with her father
My Brankica has passed away
And you squeeze your mom’s hand and look at the sky
and ask what Brankica died of.
because of the heart, your mother will say
of the heart, of the heart, of the heart
Now, while you are cuddling your hair,
Only now do you know what is “of the heart”
And how girls named Brankica die
You would like her like I do
I’m looking at the windows of that apartment
Which I’m going along this street
And while I comb my hair, I see her face
I want to have hair like Brankica had.
Come to the dark side of people
When the silent come to the shot-down-screams
When the birds stop singing
When they need to fly at the last
Metaphores of time go out from the glass
The shoes come to us from the past
We must free the German nation
15 000 Soviet persons of war
25 000 Prisoners from other ethnic groups
Step by step of shooting-voice:
It need to be the German-noice!
Knock at the Aushwitz door
And the show-window-shoes runs away
There is breaking all that glass
Which take prisoner-shoes and shoes-slaves
After shot-people in the chambers-Gas
That knows the limit of human main
All the revolt-visitors walking
From The Eon Mind of The Great Lord
Which give us a shot of silent memos rain
Fosil slave shoes in Aushwitz
only knows the human pain.
Translated by: Milko Grbovic