Vitebsk, 1914

by Vladimir Druk
translated by Alex Halberstadt 

Vitebsk, 1914
in memory of Mark Chagall

fate’s snotty armored train
bursts into someone’s comfort zone
pushing their barrels through the slits
the fighters shoot and croon.

no use hiding behind the cupboard
when they’ve got you by the collar
shelves fly apart
and blood trickles onto sand.

bang! bang! like in a jar of lollipops
everything rattles, everyone rattles!

and in the window’s bargain bin
the moon goes through its quarter phases
its crumbs and scraps
peer through a hole in the drapes.

the weebles race down the alley
their faces buried in mommy’s lap
and rosy milk, familiar, light,
plows down sleepy veinlike streets.
foam flies up like a flag,
a child, or the laughter of
tubercular violin strings.

on fire, the pregnant woman
presses her belly to the sky,
a beautiful and bloody cab driver
follows with a chisel.
bed sheets and empty bottles
dangle from the electric gun-sights.
the little soldier couldn’t escape
the Italian lady at the station,
and now he’s standing guard in long johns.
the crone chews onions for her supper,
the old man puts on a humped cap,
while the cat, deep in thought,
ties himself into a maritime knot
but can’t.

ecstatic, the physics teacher
rubs together wires,
the school inspector’s uniform
sticks out three arms,

and the torn-off head
flies through the air,
no longer right.

from belt buckles with pencil mustaches
to thighs with languid eyes,
a whisper sweeps the classroom:
“here comes the electricity!”

here comes the electricity
running through wires and tangled branches,
a magnet that will suck the twilight from
above schoolgirls and schoolboys.

bang! bang! like in a jar of lollipops
everything rattles, everyone rattles!

oh!—what is this I see—could it be
awkward Dora by the fence?
thinking about this, that, and the other,
she spies the writing on the fence and
scratches a fist with her beard.
she spies the writing on the fence and
with a gasp,
stoops for a closer look at
the word “idiot” “smart.”

…the shack’s plywood walls fall
into tall grass with a silent shudder
as the swollen sound of
a harmonica slices the air.

destiny, a bloated, obese woman,
watches me through the window.
a domino tile, with a clinking sound,
walks ceremoniously past her.

a sweaty cab driver, as if in a nightmare,
sleeps inside a reflecting samovar.
it’s dark.  the night barely-visible.
the moon is branded with the window’s cross.