Archive > Vol. 5 no. 1
Colleen J. McElroy
A Skadarlija Walk in Three-Quarter Time
3 hats, 3 pigs, 2 fishermen and the stones
in double rows of quaint cafes lined up 2 X 2
for what could be any square in Greenwich or Soho
the look the ’50s the first time round
count the wooden signs clanking like 100 tongues
count the taxis hungry for riders
but do not count on the moon’s light
caught in this Balkan claptrap of stones
or poets walking aimless and foreign
in a country of endless walking and smoking
count only cafes called 3 pigs, 2 fishermen
a bad fiddler and a horn
the wheels of thick farmer’s bread
the lambs skinned and hung like long-necked chickens
hooked in place and round and round, the humps of stone
count heroes lounging in Slavic poses, cigarettes in place
their women of little drinks and many sweets
the paths cleared for lovers walking hand-in-glove
their eyes on the moon flicking against stones
like patterns in a gypsy’s scarf
the usual dreck of moonlight and stones
lovers and shadows, fiddlers and sorrow
now count gypsies begging for small change
in a country that holds little money
their language so old it holds only vowels
count the words that echo against my tongue clean
as the bad boots of that pigeon-toed poet
walking beside me past guarded eyes
where I may be African, American even
count the looks that pass between us
the sweet cakes glazed in animal fat
the goat’s cheese, bouquets of radishes
cevapcici and wine
count the hundreds of bridal gowns in a town
where no wind blows harder than war
and stones marry sorrow
ask my landlord who married the baker’s daughter
ask the bread that sits on the table
the tubs of spongy cheese
ask the women who stare at me and wonder
the men who stare and mutter
the gypsies married to stone
my blackness wedded to their eyes