At the end of summer there’s a woman tied to a tree;
there’s a tray of fruit in the grass at her feet.
Effendi’s long gone, he’s playing table-tennis
somewhere else now, he says he had orders to leave.
On summer nights, the stars are lost in the trees,
the mulberries grow sweeter and sweeter;
in the morning the women beat the branches
until bright red fruit falls to the ground.
Now a boy picks up a stick —
the woman is blind fold.
Wolves are crossing the Drina,
the town has fallen, there are snails on the road,
the river is swollen — there’s a bird in a cage,
a grandfather clock strapped to a table,
a cupboard with a portrait of Tito inside,
all pulled, put-a-put-put,
by a Soviet-era tractor and trailer.
In a distant field, the soldiers cheer.
Darko strikes the woman. He unzips his fly,
but he doesn’t know the drill;
he’s a new recruit, his pistil unfires.
He’s scared, he’s excited. He’s scared again.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He’ll never get over this morning.
No shrinking violet. He beats her again.
This time the pistol fires for real.
Laurence O’Dwyer | The River House
Contents | Mudlark No. 75 (2023)