Poem

Poem
     translated from Belarusian by Annie Rutherford

five flowers
he told the florist
two open wide
one in part
two still just buds
a raised eyebrow
never has she had such an exact customer

five flowers do not fit into a wine bottle
the neck is too slim
and I am too small
against your background
my mountain
my lake

so I divide them up
three
then one and one
that weird custom of giving
an even number of flowers
to the dead

as if there weren’t enough differences between us
being dead and alive

as if there were hope
that I too might unfurl like those buds

which
never did