A Dead Sailor with a Date Kernel in His Fist

 

He came, unexpected, to my bed

and I woke up on his arm

Traces of the sailing rope around his wrist

like a bracelet

and no knot was strong enough to hold him down

 

A star told him that I was born

There, in the land of big birds, he guards islands

On his forearm, I saw, small feathers were growing

 

He told me that he will never go away

because he keeps a kernel of a date

hidden between the bones of his fist

“And when you bury me” - he said -

“I will grow like a palm to protect you from the heat”

 

 

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Stipe Odak was born in Bosnia and Herzegovina and currently lives in Bruxelles. Art, theology, social sciences, divided in equal parts of profession and fun, beat the rhythm of his everyday life. He graduated Comparative Literature, Sociology, Theology in Croatia and Belgium, and published two books of poems.