Somewhere Somewhere

In Belgrade
Stands the eroded skeleton
of a building, struck by a bomb
(Of justice, they say)
As a reminder that
Nothing
Ever happened there.

When you look at the south-east corner
Of a map, you’ll find a hole in it.
But when I think about
The city I was born in,
Every alley and turn and trap
Of crumbling streets
Winds down into my pits.

There’s a name written under
A windowsill, in white chalk.
But history is peeling stucco
And names mean nothing
Without a language,
Language means nothing without
a story, and if there ever was

Glory in act, it is now
Buried in no one’s memory.
That name in chalk
Is also in my blood,
I carry it around
In foreign land
And choke on it.

Up, the flood of foaming
Words comes
Loathing the legacy
It carries. Uproot me
From my bed
Of memories.
Carry me over

The blue, blue Danube,
Like an old song goes.
If I am to find home,
I’ll have to wash myself
First in fresh waters,
Crush myself in
Thin flesh, and be

Dust on rusty roofs,
Sedimenting on dark
Windows, unable to
Withstand the gust;
Knocking on glass
Of empty houses,
Belonging like

Sand into eyes.

Maria Popovic was born in Belgrade and raised in Italy, where she obtained a MSc in theoretical physics. She is currently based in Dublin in pursuit of a PhD at Trinity College. Despite her scientific background, Maria has found solace and fulfilment in poetry. You can find her on Twitter @mariaminuszero.