The Promise

The Promise


I don't look over my shoulder, no idea 
where I'm headed and not an ounce of fear, 
falling like fluff from an eiderdown quilt, 
sinking in the afternoon air, real as an hour 
of solitude or the fragrance of an herb. 
My wounds are healed over and all five senses 
in sync, harmonized to the birds and the sky, 
the grimy wall of an underpass with graffiti 
scratched in a child's hand, announcing 
I was here. But not only here, my lord, as you 
know, I go where you want me to be—
tonight, for instance, I am a wave 
you push across the Old Square, underground 
through a parking garage, over the banks 
of a lazy green river and over the files 
on a drawing desk of another architect. 
Come, a whisper says, and again 
I flood the channel, at one with 
the darkened air above the city and the steppe, 
like the pillow you smooth and soften up 
for someone unable to sleep, 
lying along the world as it slowly goes out.

ALEŠ DEBELJAK
translated from the Slovenian by Andrew Zawacki and the author