M.P.

by Galina Rymbu
translated by Anna Halberstadt

Your clock is an alphabet
How much did it cost?
Why am I not allowed to touch it?
Does it exist?

I love your writing,
that does not take me into account.  I like the fact,
that in your text there is no window
for you to take a look at me.
My window must be in the panel,
the Sun of the steppe is shining there, and I sweat,
water evaporates from me
as if from a potted plant.  Holly Ghost!

In the evening I stuffed myself with cheap pasta and cucumbers.
I did not read your stuff.  Barely.
I could have written: you know, my friend,
in his mouth a rosehip blooms.
But instead I will write: his mouth is spiked.
You can’t kiss him.  Can’t put your tongue inside.
Not into one of the holes.
Everything inside him seems bricked up.
That’s my friend.

My son calls himself “Black”
I like this image: black Sun.
I like to vegetate in the dark with beer.
What do you think, a letter — is it a box with bones?

My belly expands like a balloon from beer,
Girls should not be this way.
Is letter a rotten music box?
A playing field?  For golf?
All of this is dated.

Now a change of affect, instead
of affects themselves.

My friend is completely closed off.
I am here, silent.

Lying with my cat in the dark.
Chasing thoughts with my tongue.
A sitting after a sitting.
If one could finish this in five minutes . . .