TE21 Serbian Moments

Ana Ristović

Directions for Use


Poetry, my dear poet, is a bidet — to nest in it your soul must possess tenderness.

In the first city, your shadow ends in the first morning coffee before someone’s desperate mouth swallows it.

In the second, it catches in the doorway of a room you were sure you’d return to. But you don’t. So be it. In the third, it peers at its reflection in a gasoline’s rainbow puddle and names its stench the force of civilization.

In the fourth, it tugs at your whole soul, and slips into the intercom while someone important waits to be buzzed in. It says, “How can I help you” and slouches into a question mark.



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