Academic journal article Chicago Review


Academic journal article Chicago Review


Article excerpt

Old fathers. Rebel children. Lost estates. Pawned silver. At the Kursk Station, a beggar flashes a small mirror of coin.

A surprise. Russian herbs smell bitter. A shock. Here June blooms bitter.

Smells too strong and the moon in its sign Is like a well-baked, round, glazed pie.

The space cocoons itself as if in a wasp's nest, Here time runs in some different way,

As if someone began cleaning Christmas fish From the inside, with bones not with scales I killed you and I killed myself. For four weeks I said prayers.

I fasted I didn't touch the spring, Then I tried to lift my eyes,

And I saw it. A wolf cradling a lamb, A rabbit taking a fox for a walk.

They were together. One next to another. An angel on the road? Nobody was there. Translated by Frank L. Vigoda


for Kasia


Then I saw as if in an old prophesy: a drop of fluid

on the tip of a needle the flame

of a candle the wood top of a table Our hands nestled into

the chairs Our hands far away from each other Again we flow and time stands still Again

the room shrinks The

garden outside the windows extinguished and calm Our words as if frosted

over caught in the rain And again the wise admonishment of the clock: Who are you to open your mouth? …

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