Non Sequitur

~Dedicated to all the churches, mosques, and bridges which we didn’t know how to keep~


If I could wake up
And be seventeen in Banja Luka
Again,
This is what I would do.

I’d walk slowly
Along my regular route
Down tree-lined streets
(It would have to be spring)
Stretching between
Home and school;
I’d pass the main square
And the city park,
Turn left in front of the bank
Where my brother and me
Emptied our piggy banks
Lifetimes ago,
Zigzag through some dusty backyards
Where one icy winter morning
I suddenly knew what it means
To die of cold,
And enter the gates of my
High school, the best in town.

Not fearing the bell,
I’d ignore the crushes
And rushes, and
Hairstyles, and fashions
And proceed to walk
Around the building;
Passing the smokers’ corner
I’d cross in an unswerving line
The exercise field
Nobody every used,
And reaching the edge of
The school grounds
I’d approach the small mosque
Perching on that plot
For the past four hundred years.

I’d examine the fountain,
Look round the court yard,
Take off my shoes
And step inside,
Not knowing that
Four years later, this handful
Of history will be bulldozered
By war,
And certainly not suspecting
That further down the line
I’ll feel this vast sadness
For never even giving it
A second glance.