Anna to Herself

I'm unhappy, Anyutochka,
my heart no longer beats,
or begs me to fight

I was once a mango, now I  have shrunk 
nameless and frozen 
under the scoundrels of the world

Russian women and Russians, God is not with us
But girl, I love your words;  you don’t even know
that I read you 
nor need to know,
I won’t stop you from breathing
a pure stream of voices,
of  red-orange hair,
sweet bait and my memory of mangoes,
bless you

No one here feels the power of words;
everyone is old and stagnant 
even their air is mossy, I feel it with my nose

they sleep, afraid I will rob them
of  their precious things—their surplus and ceremonies,
the fluid of  their unborn babies.

How did it happen that only  the  peel  of me is left?
But a girl must write, skin, core and flesh.
Write, girl, how beautiful you are
as only you have shown me.

Painting Courtesy of Hanan Youssef