Alen Hamza



My silence has a mother in it and summer
refuses to move on.

Dear God, your breath is hot, your fingers long.
In heat of Texas, under ghostly mistletoe,

I kiss the ghosts of home country girls.
Lips of Jelena, Koštana, Alma: how do you feel

about color, how do you feel about the lips
of your husbands?

Your molars hide the molds of keys
that breathe salvation open.

Run me green, give me directions
in the language of youth.

I am the library which cannot dream anymore,           
a decade unchecked, copulating with dust. 

Future is mother or father.
Forgetting, remembering.






"I must tell you that in East European countries / the best-looking men are the Mormons: the side-parting of their hair / radiates with first love, something in their gait / brings glamorous fashion shows to mind." —Lidija Dimkovska, "Recognition"