Falcon
*Translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian
Hair frosted with hairspray.
A pleasant voice. A wart on the chin.
Here she is – a woman of a basaltic age.
She gives off a sad smell of vanilla and Latin –
like para bellum, but preparing herself for another bout of overeating, not for war.
She’s gone through fire and water,
and through the local plumber, just a little bit.
It sounds incredible, but it happened that
she’s never been to the seaside
and she’s not sorry about that.
She carries her body stoically,
as if a short-winded dragon stole it
but failed to capture the violoncello of her soul,
and one day a prince charming will sort out the weed from the chaff.
In the morning, when the dawn boils soap in the sky over the stadium,
after killing all Hunting Dogs,
and melting the constellations into apricot goo,
she, in a nightgown, walks out onto the balcony.
She’s huge like a church bell, like a mega-ghost.
She lights up a thin, strawberry-flavored cigarette,
and the balcony strains its concrete bull’s neck.
But somewhere inside the immense princess
lives a little girl, who spends hours at the piano,
studies her granny’s recipes
goes to the movies with friends.
Here’s a photo from an outing:
she stays in the background like a moraine,
looking defiantly, with a cool fury.
Like a freshly caught falcon
staring through the bars of its cage.
DMITRY BLIZNIUK is an author from Ukraine. His most recent poems have appeared The Courtship of Winds, River Poets Journal, Dream Catcher, Magma, The Gutter Magazine, and Press53. He is a finalist for 2016 Open Eurasia Award and The Best of Kindness 2017 (USA). He lives in Kharkov, Ukraine.
Twyckenham Notes 