***

The mist is thickening, the woman is cleaning her shoes - her hands are red with blood,
As soon as a coastal voice can be seen through them, she repeats what another woman
Told her – a recipe, how to treat a patient. You can look in between, you can look through, but
Never catch her direct gaze on any of the things as if she were ashamed of them,
She warns herself not to faint when she looks into the rectum while hunting
The scream that rolls up like the smoke that reaches the sky and reaches the face that
Is waving in the middle of the flag. I remember when I had to pick the fruit, when
The mother came with other people's children and exchanged them for her own. The wine
Was black, the wine that was froze on his tongue before he uttered anything that buried -
Several times a tough body. Even when the earth threw him to the surface,
He was covered with her breasts and flared with rage and love. Someone walks in the shade,
His steps covered the whole garden, someone by all means overcomes the same distance
And falls breathless near the threshold. He makes holes of the cry and the rain on the dark sky,
He returns to what he heard before, he heard it from those whom he did not remember.
The yard is black and white and a hunchbacked man is sweeping from east to west,
He is pulling a mannequin taken out of the river in a wheelchair, wherever his foot steps, the doll
leaves traces

Christine Drohomyretska, 32, Lviv // writer, researcher of literature and cinema // author of the poetry books Navigators do not work in the dark and Dead Grass