Today We are Slovenia, 7 July 1991 and Afterwards
The heart we talk about is so much more
than a muscle.
Bloated when
our song pumped, wept
in dark theatres, stood
calm as a diver
before her first spring.
We talked our heart
into crowded battle
with the colours
of our other great loves on our wings.
I still see stocky peasants on pitches and gravel,
in the bottoms of beer bottles,
in rivers that run, graves
getting repaired, coffee
that still goes cold.
Our hearts beat
for skeletons of city halls.
The wind carries
fields of names. The sun burns,
sometimes cold burns. The war
is sweater and chill, skin we wear every day, fold up at night.
Ryan Van Winkle
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