KD
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions
NOTE:  Mobile users may view THIS PDF to experience the poem's intended layout.

oleg pupovac

it helps me sleep when i remember

​it helps me sleep when i remember
my mother guiding my hand to the oven
holding some rosemary wrapped in twine
telling me to repeat a prayer after her, slowly
i don’t remember the prayer
but i remember it included my uncles
on the night before christmas
me, my mother and an oven in the middle of a desert 
it helps me remember what her chest smelled like
and how her dyed blonde hair thinned at the edge
i wish i did not forget the prayer, what i repeated
when the bedouins went about their business 
preparing for the cold night, working in the scorching heat
i wonder if they thought then about ahura mazda
about the priests who have washed up on their shores
i don’t think so, i think they only knew eternity and coffee
and on occasion trampled an empire before theirs
a carcass of a learned leviathan hunched out of the sand
cautioning the future like some stern father
like some mother whose suspicion was ritualised
whose superstition was surpassed only by tradition
i wish i had the presence of mind to say
mother write down this prayer, i may need it at thirty three
it may help me sleep to pray for my uncles in the desert
and for their wide fingers and blind blue eyes
if that mother, the one bent over the eight year old, could
imagine a fire from an oven and a parish in the desert
then i can imagine how my wife’s waters billow
and how the back of her neck sees no sun, only closed eyes

Biography

Picture
oleg pupovac (he/him) is a serbian artist. he is currently working on a contemporary performance and his first collection of poems entitled i am writing to know your name. oleg is based out of his village raštević in croatia where he spends his time dreaming of winter, writing in his airconditioned room and imagining himself in all the rocks, cement and olive trees. you can find him on ig @dos_peas twitter @olegpupovac and dospeas.com 
back to issue
​Next Poem →
Picture
ISSN 2639-426X
© COPYRIGHT 2018-2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions