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Poem	Every dead one has a name, only the names of the living make us falter. Some names are impossible to utter without a stammer and a fidget, some can only be spoken through allusion, and some, mostly women’s, are forbidden in these parts. Every dead one has a name, engraved in stone, printed in obituary or directory, but my name must be undermined, every few years soiled and substituted with another one. A decade ago, a high-ranking party official warned me: Stay a poet, as long as there’s still time. Still time? Time for what? I have also become a social scientist and an editor and an organiser and a translator and an activist and a university teacher. Unbearable - all these things - all trespasses of the old parcel borders that were drawn by the dirty fingers of fraternities. I air all the rooms, I ignore all the ratings, I open all the valvelets. And they have put me out in the cold – like the dead. But every dead one has a name. © Taja Kramberger, Z roba klifa / From the Edge of a Cliff, CSK, Ljubljana, 2011 © Translation by Špela Drnovšek Zorko, 2012
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