Alone in my room to Mother

by Anzhelina Polonskaya


I’m in my room.
Remnants of sleep
stick to my eyelids,
like flies.
Window wells
with cold snow —
a trilogy of dawn,
day, and night.
You told me:
“sooner or later
time will hang black locks
on our doors.
We’ll go
to other
midday shadows
and rustling leaves.
That’s how mothers go, but
children remain.”
And during the nights, when
insomniac snows
pile onto the roof,
I etch that truth
with a knife.

Translated by Andrew Wachtel.