Child of Nature, Luljeta Lleshanaku

A New Directions Book

LULJETA LLESHANAKU

translated by henry israeli & shpresa qatipi

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WINTER PRELUDE

Darkness has not yet fallenand from a neighbor’s yardcomes a hammer’s pounding—the apiary mended for winter’s hibernation.What good is it knowing who switched off the light?It’s better not to see that face.Let the last mouthful of light devour itself.Let the door of the coal stoveenjoy the fading purple glow.You are old enoughto sit close by with a black poker.When the room cools down we both dream of the gypsy womanthe rattling of her silver earringsher full breasts, and her premonition:a blue-eyed womanthe birth of six children.

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NARRATION IN THE THIRD PERSON

It begins when she searches in the darknessfor her likeness, a line of verse awaiting its end rhymeor for a little music, or the exchange of carbon dioxide betweenflowers in the eveningthe feeling of turning forty.And it is just a matter of stylethe manner in which she finds herself because no clashes, no noise at all is expected any longerthe hardest hits already takenlike a statue that’s lost its nose.A forty-year-old womanis a shadow in search of an objecta voice in the third person, a series of lessons with little notes written in red, underlinedalong the right margin. The space between lines is flesh, is someonein the waiting room behind a dentist’s door where the stench of arseniccomes and goes.Experience, experience, experience!Little zigzags and a sense of accomplishment with which the silkworm gnaws the mulberry leaf starting from the tip.She makes peace with everything: she keeps her drawers tidy,practices yoga,the takeoffs and landingson the runway of her soul.When she approaches forty or better yet,

if

she approaches forty,because being forty isn’t re∑uired

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