by Anzhelina Polonskaya
But should they say that
snow has fallen . . .
Snow on the black battlements
on the sidewalks
that scream with the voices of arches —
don’t believe them.
An autumn forest redolent with animal blood
and the pounding of feet (in a dream perhaps ?)
on the flattened paths of veins.
The taste of your saliva on my tongue —
the unsaid, un –
A hundred thousand “no’s” of faithless fire
and the two of us fated.
Eye to eye —
You should tell them:
There’s no snow outside, it’s within me.
Translated by Andrew Wachtel.