Words are beings with a life of their own.
Each one that comes to me from you,
I catch, dissect, look deep
inside – I play with their hearts.
Sometimes I rearrange them,
wash and give them new clothes.
They become pretty.
That’s how I survive.
Maja S. Todorovic
You remember that boy in the 5th grade that pulled your hair and called you ‘Fatty Betty’?
We know all about it.
You know that ugly bracelet your parents gave you for your 21st birthday and
how you wished it disappear?
Consider it done.
You know that fear of spiders that shows up from nowhere
each time you dust your room?
It’s gone!
Just lift your left arm, it won’t hurt…
This kind man in white coat will take care of everything, dear.
Maja S. Todorovic
Her left hooded eyelid lingeres just over the edge
where lashes touched her hair
silver pupil is less widened from the right one
it didn’t hurt: close to a mosquito bite
red mark in the root of a left hand
became the only trail she walked
to her dream
to her drea
to her dre
to her dr
to her d
to her.
Maja S. Todorovic
Spring didn’t bring any change.
As dull clouds spilled ink
on the white face of the sky
so did your cheeks grow
more yellow creases
and lips were losing their smile.
Emptiness swallowed all the words:
our nameless turning heads,
evasion of eyesight collision
is the only language we know.
Maja S. Todorovic
You know of the love subliminal:
it’s like when your deep voice comes
from misty darkness
in waves of the love subliminal;
when every cell of my body rejoices
in the rhythm of drums
playing melody of the love subliminal;
when my tied hands spasm around
dance of the lonely body parts
living in the house of the love subliminal;
when only sound of your guitar exists
and purpose floats towards final silence.
Maja S. Todorovic
I could see the island from my window. During summer we used to go to swim and play there: At Lido beach. The alluvial plateau verved with life and deep, green bushes. In the middle of the island was a small lake where fish in love would go on a date at night; secluded from the city lights youngsters would play in my hands. As I would dig in the sand my little feet, with one eye I would count all 17 archaeopteryx species that I new and with other I would admire the Kalemegdan walls, standing proudly above the river bank. “The Beautiful Blue Danube” did exist. You have to believe me!
No, it’s not like the story I used to tell about wired fences, birds with plastic wings and hatcheries of oil spill rings.
Maja S. Todorovic
