contact zone
love fish
the love fish
lives in the large body of the river
it swims in it like a pendulum
back and forth and in a circle
fastened to the heart’s axis
it patiently meanders
from the water’s roots
to its spreading branches
swims paths that are covered
with only your traces
the love fish sings
with a frog’s mouth
with an ant’s voice
oh how ugly it is how blind
not worth the slightest mention in the thinnest book
so hungry
that it eats shadows
touches, traces of kisses
on the warm throat of the day
it knows that out of all names
your name is the dearest
and so
swimming into the deep wells
it sheds large round stone tears
falling heavily to the bottom
through the thick clear water
the love fish
knows
that your name rings
like bracelets on the wrists
of a gypsy dancer
that it echoes like
a bag of copper coins scattered
in a large empty church
or like the sound of soldiers in the square
throwing down their weapons all at once
a thousand swords
your name is sharp
when taken tenderly beneath the tongue
it pierces the mouth
and the tip
comes out through the lip
swim love fish
while your big tree of water grows
while the iron hook in your lip
lives its quiet life
keeping you tethered
and tenderly pulling
ever closer to
home
Reprinted with the permission of Lost Horse Press.
To read more, buy Pray to the Empty Wells by Iryna Shuvalova.
dark morning
(from genius loci)
it’s so dark
the morning pretends to be night
black foxes
lurk among the stars
biting winds
shift restlessly
in their nests high above
dew
bites fingers
the dog-rose
grabs passersby by their sleeves
and pulls them into the thicket
into the entrails of the hedge
bristling with spirits
full of sleeping birds
cold
runs through the fields like a rabid dog
leaving long threads of saliva
across the frozen land
across the hard lumpy earth
howling
frightened by its own madness
it looks for shelter
even if in death
death
sits
watches over its hovel
breathes on its hands
hides them in its pockets
where it finds
bits of tobacco
moldy seeds
mice droppings
“what a night
—death thinks—
a hell of a long one”
Reprinted with the permission of Lost Horse Press.
To read more, buy Pray to the Empty Wells by Iryna Shuvalova.
a mouse
(from genius loci)
you left
but the memory of you lives on
in my home
stealthily
as a mouse
it runs underneath the bed at night
clicks its small paws
rustles paper
leaves its droppings in corners
there is no way to get rid of it
it avoids the traps
that it took me so long to set
jamming my fingers
gasping
crying like a baby
wise wise mouse
small old beast
sits in the corner
for days
not a movement
not a squeak
pretends it doesn’t exist
its paws tail and shadow
tucked beneath itself
at night it becomes braver
comes into the center of the room
with a twitching nose
it breathes in the air
the house smells of yesterday’s bread
wool socks
shower gel
my fears and my dreams
the mouse comes
sits on my pillow
pensively grooming its whiskers
i open my mouth in sleep
move my lips
as if about to say something
but instead—
i just breathe
Reprinted with the permission of Lost Horse Press.
To read more, buy Pray to the Empty Wells by Iryna Shuvalova.
in the bathroom
(from genius loci)
in the bathroom
i wash off our future children
they don’t resist
instead dripping quietly down the drain
running through the pipes
soaking the earth
finally they are carried out somewhere far
by a small river
lazy calm
splashing about
among the reeds and duckweed
among the round-eyed fish and meddling insects
among the sun-warmed shoals and small whirlpools
our future children
are laughing
Reprinted with the permission of Lost Horse Press.
To read more, buy Pray to the Empty Wells by Iryna Shuvalova.
a contact zone
(from conversations about war but not only)
what you have there is a contact zone, says ulrich
the lenses of his eyeglasses flashing
his smile intelligent
behind the window the city is helplessly inundated with snow
it’s the beast from the east, say the meteorologists
and we believe them
for how can you not believe in a beast, especially one from the east
i say, no-no, what we have is a war
that is I use some other, methodologically more correct term,
but what i really mean is war,
the one with many names
the most frightening of them being the polite ones
for example, a conflict
a conflict in the east
where something was left unresolved,
something did not get sorted
consensus was not reached,
the two parties found themselves incompatible
like an old married couple,
there you go: a conflict
on the other hand, ulrich is right
war is a contact sport:
you step too close to the other
so close that you can smell their sweat
can hear them breathing
and even afterwards
when it stops
and you drop your weapon
this closeness remains with you
you have to wash it off in the shower
for a long long time
scrubbing vigorously
or perhaps what we have is a contact—
like that with extraterrestrial civilizations
because the other side of the front line is like another galaxy
how dare these outsiders, these primitives, these aliens
kill and die—just as well as we do
how dare they be so human and inhumane, all at once
almost like us, too
how dare they be like us
how dare they
i’m not sure if this is what ulrich was trying to say
Reprinted with the permission of Lost Horse Press.
To read more, buy Pray to the Empty Wells by Iryna Shuvalova.