A Kind of Headless Guilt Emerges

By Ana Božičević b. 1977 Ana Božičević

I’m alone until I’m asleep, and there you are: naked,

you take my hand: Shhhh! We

tiptoe through a

black-blue meadow. To the pond behind the farmhouse. (The farmer

sleeps in the blind window.) No cicadas even,

maybe just maybe Venus — & this is before Wednesday, everything’s

alright, we

tiptoe ‘round the house as around a painful subject — & we’re at the pond!

And now it’s time. To use vague holy-man speech, like: I am

another face in your hand, the face of your eye — wing-surrogates, the word

bones —

it’s time for afternoon, them white-blank architectures.

No, veil. Nothing’s glistening. Christmas, Christmas. It’s time

for you to forgive me: I was forced to eat valises

that wouldn’t close by themselves —

that was just a dream, good morning:

regurgitate the stars and the soot

Ana Bozicevic, "A Kind of Headless Guilt Emerges" from Stars of the Night Commute. Copyright © 2009 by Ana Bozicevic. Reprinted by permission of Tarpaulin Sky Press.

Source: Stars of the Night Commute (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2009)

Biography

Born in Zagreb, Croatia, Božičević emigrated to New York City in 1997 and studied at Hunter College. She is the author of several chapbooks, including Morning News (2006) and Document (2007). Her first book-length collection, Stars of the Night Commute (2009), was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards.

Travelers and messengers figure in Božičević’s dreamlike poems of shifting diction, narrative, and settings. Chris . . .

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