What Happens Across Your Body

A ragged caravan crawls across your belly.
The wheels creak.
The dogs’ tongues
and the motley ribbons on the carts
hang down toward the ground.

And at Demir Baba, there on your neck,
the feast is over.
The songs have died down
in the tired mouths —
a taste of song and pilaf.

And on your ankles, in Strandzha,
the fires have smouldered out.
Heels flecked with bits of ember
are tipped up, face to the sky, in the bedding,
and a pine wind clings to them.

And at Karandila, there on your shoulder blade,
the water mirrors every falling from the sky,
every salty drop for you.
In the silence of the Balkan
tears and laughter hold their tongue.

And in your veins, the Maritsa and the Danube,
he has dipped his spear,
and dragon’s blood runs down them.