Of all of them

by Igor Bulatovsky
translated by Polina Barskova and Ainsley Morse

* * *

Of all of them
I still pity Schubert the most
Schubert who said caww!  To January
Schubert, whose snowbank of a mouth
sang along with the dictionary

He has a sign hanging around his neck
“I sheltered partisans”
His feisty gray little face
Is buried in blue steam.

And this sky here is a fully legal
suppression of underdog rights.
And this forest, dressed in crude canvas,
Is coming apart at the seams

* * *

the grass is always
the grass is always sweeter at the edge of the ravine
And the catcher knows the rye grows thickest at cliff ’s edge
Sweet boy chew that sugary gristle
Attempting to open that box of papa’s chest
To unlock, to break it with your knife

When the truth is revealed, when animals
Pick up the wet scent
Then martens enter through the open doors
The flutes weep and the grouse goes deaf
The box opens and there is a gun inside