You dipped your hand into his life

and it came out covered with the pattern that never came off.

Didn’t matter how fast you rode from Solo to Yogya,

didn’t matter how badly you wanted to die

in the week of suffering. Fever high as tops of the trees

you blacked out and switched on.

You accelerated but it didn’t fade.

You tried to read yourself into complicated political problems,

you met a girl in Dunkin Donuts and turned into mermaids with her to swim together in the south sea.

You went to see a newborn baby

and suffered terrible boredom through the rituals in a language you didn’t know.

Once back in your room with an empty birdcage,

it was still there,

you crawled into the cage and sang Madonna.

You sang like Vanemuine and like Homer,

a song with no end,

and suddenly two sparkles lit in your empty eyes

and you started to sink ships,

just for fun.




You walked naked through the life,

stepped on the street, long hair covering your nakedness

and declared that you would learn it all from scratch.

You cut carrots on my peanut butter sandwich

and read me your favorite novel.

At night time you sat with me in a cafe,

burying yourself into the materials for your PhD,

stark naked.

Do you know that every time you step into the jungle

it sings?

I hadn’t heard it yet.

You let your hair tangle into a cluster

and little flowers were growing from your fingers.

You drove home through the dreams

on streets that ceased to exist after you’d passed

and you swore you’d walk through the dark corridors

that hunted you at night.

Aimlessly you nibbled a frangipani blossom in your hand

to eat it with your coffee and admitted:

you’d become a teacher.

Anete Kruusmägi is an Estonian writer currently traveling in Central America. Previously, she has published poems in the Estonian literary journals Värske Rõhk and Melancholy Hyperbole.