by Andrei Sen-Senkov
translated by Anna Halberstadt

grief can’t be drowned in alcohol
grief knows, how to swim in it

in the ethyl california of your stomach
in the methyl black sea of the brain

it gets out onto the beach at times
basks in the sun
makes selfies
lies in a chaise lounge
leaves through the first random book
and gets paper cuts

one has no desire to kneel
in front of people
who write such books

one wishes to be born
legless

by Andrei Sen-Senkov
     translated by Ainsley Morse

for a while they sent cats out to belka, strelka
and the other space dogs the cats would fly off
never came back
they just didn’t want to
they just didn’t understand why
they were heading out to outer space in the first place
and they would hang stars on their claws stars
glittering like mice in the darkness

they’d head out cautious and lovely
like you
touching the water with one foot
before entering the naked sea

by Andrei Sen-Senkov
translated by Anna Halberstadt

I was six years old
and there was a special person
who lived in our building
when I was in the courtyard
with the boys
and he would slowly emerge
and slowly pass in the midst
of us playing
we would stop in our tracks
and stop kicking the ball
there was something special about him
not darkness, no
some type of condensed gray
he was not an alcoholic not a crazy mean wizard
not a kind wizard either, by any means

One time I asked mom bravely
who was this guy
she brushed me off and said:
a loser
I’ve never heard the word before
and I did not get it
but got scared
when you are a kid, new words can scare you
when they are tied to mysterious adults
in mysterious ways

I also remember, that he had a Greek name
but of course, I don’t remember it

should I create such a name from scratch
so that you get as scared, as I was at six?

by Gennady Aigi
translated by Anna Halberstadt

There is that,
surprising me by creating
its hair;

There is that, that is ashamed of falling
and can fall, and apples are rolling
on strings,
and the strings are thin
and they are cold

There is—A, an empty A
there is a circle of amazing As
there are needles with jasmine blood
there, as if washing over
the deer’s eyes and horns,
and here, where I find myself,
it seems, branches after branches
are being displayed.

Let’s ask for a snowstorm—
it will start circling within the gaps
of shop windows

Start calling, omitting the name,
as if throwing out
white crisscrossing lines

And there, there is—this back,
changing me,
in the way deer impact the woods,

And like a murder, it exists and it’s not here,
and it’s torn in a horrible way
from the very person by its name,
as if in a dream
he was gifted
an iron shape of the crossroads
and has been told
this was eternity,

and I turned unhappy
since I believed it

and I am crying, crying and crying
in every corner of myself.