poetry

Heart of Split
Branka Petrovic

i.

 

There's a place at the heart of Split where

 

tiny streets taper into arterial corners of the brain, enter

 

the mind's peristyle, so that you can see out into the garden

 

and thick fog descends over the Palace, heavy

 

like a moon full of skulls.

  

ii.

 

The city is profile of limestone covered faces,

 

walls that stare into the present's lingering past.

 

The land where the Palace continues curves

 

itself seaward like a hip into stone, its arc inward

 

toward a solid womb.

 

iii.

 

And blood, not soil, fuels the earth.

 

A field of hardened head-stones crosses into border

 

of coagulated bones to form the entrance front.

 

Outside, the sun spills red onto rooftops,

 

a sea of coming ships stains the horizon wall.

 

iv.

 

Olive trees, (ripe when black, otherwise green)

 

mark the coast. At times, symbol of longevity,

 

the time her salt-filled lips shaped moons

 

to allow the fruit, your finger, to enter,

 

to swallow the whole sea at once.

  

v.

 

Its marketplace stretches into infinite

 

parade of slaughtered pilchards. The scent

 

at the still of your neck to which her cheek anchored itself

 

so often. Over the terrace,

 

square white sheets flirt with bent wind.

Branka Petrovic is currently pursuing an MA in English and Creative Writing at Concordia University, working on a manuscript of ekphrastic poems, co-editing Headlight Anthology, and translating poetry from Serbo-Croatian into English. She received her BA in English and Philosophy from McGill University.