Zagreb, ’93
Our downstairs neighborWatered theConcrete backyardTwice a day religiouslyTo keep the dustFrom his basementApartment untilThe bare slab grewMoss & lichenIts own ecosystemWater of lifeWe laughed at him butOne morning I went outTo the balcony hungOver the backyardTo have a smoke—Are you picturingAll this? It wasThat time of month,& I becameLight-headedBleeding through the whiteNightgown, I fell& passed out forA few momentsWoke with bloodPoolingAround my head& crotch—But anyway, it wasNeighbor who found me andCared while IWrithed in crampsOn his green love seatUntil the ambulance cameThe ER was actuallyJust a few blocksAway andWhen it was all doneI walked back theFew streets overStill in my long white bloodyNightgown& waist-long darkGoth hairA fresh stitch by my eyeMaking a cross overAn old scarTeen Madeline UsherOr so I fanciedWalking throughYards of dusty Zagreb rosesI wanted to controlThe stream of timeKeep open the portalTo the parallel worldWhere I was cared forSomething I somehowKnew I deservedI took on faithAs the first planesFlew overhead
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- June 8, 2023
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“Zagreb, ’93” from New Life, copyright 2023 by Ana Božičević.
Used with permission of the author and Wave Books.
"Božičević’s determination to expose the unsettling truths of her own desire—her own materialism, sexuality, and shame—makes for a collection that is all the more stunning for its willingness to place its author between the crosshairs of her poems."
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
"The memory of the past elicits the harsh realization of reality outside the digital, where one’s thoughts are frequently trapped behind the edges of a screen or subsumed by the global language of social networks. Nevertheless, Božičević always knows how to turn a moment of heartbreak into an absurd post-digital event."
—LAMBDA Literary
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