Anna Zilahi’s writings in Jelenkor magazine>
A love poem
When imaginary sieges of the brain
are subsiding, but the mind has not yet calmed down
on its wave grave, barely discernible
you can hear your breath
then, and only then, into some confusion
will be listened to for the last second.
The breathing organism reaches itself.
In this case, it no longer filters up
the canal sound of digestion, and in the coolness of silence
it turns out regarding desire, but it wasn’t hunger. Who would have thought,
that the stomach is meant for more.
I see your face in his piercing
meat, stomach acid, blood, mixed media, 2022,
of the artist’s lonely projections and incomplete
thanks to his self-awareness.
Digestion, the purpose of which is no longer
energy intake and metabolism, enters into an alliance
with a broken heart and mutually swear
to annihilation. You’re my muse, but—
we are feminists – one of us
you can’t really believe it’s a compliment either. don’t believe
my heart, to the wishful thinking of the self-chasing mind
to be not at all flattering. But from a stake
are there instincts and guts? Can you speak a language
whom it deprives of all value
the pumping, and who does not tolerate contradiction
pump? The acid craving
undoubtedly knows more regarding madness than
regarding its subject, let’s note it here: regarding you.
Avoid, forget my name if you have to call me,
use motivational words. deny me
to pronounce because I was left with an ulcer
from desire, throbbing in which I see your face.
I imagine the dawn breaks just like that
as the stomach rumbles. I feed in vain
I have nothing to eat, my cells are in battle order
and in your absence everything that was given will be returned.
The film’s portrayal of vomiting elicits visceral laughter
out of me, but now I seem to understand
something from coordinated cellular resistance.
As I tug and gag on nothing
the voice, the devotion,
I snore, and yet this snore is articulate
utters your name in the voice of hunger.