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by Anna Idelevich

It’s not for nothing that I talk about plants all the time.
Green pot-bellied bottle of wine,
raw wood hissing in the fireplace,
I try to write in rhyme, but it’s useless.
An unsteady wave awakens me
from prose, music,
and the neuroses of Russians in “The Idiot”,

still strange people.
You love my metamorphosis,
the destructive force 
of the writer’s fearlessness beckons
into the wild unknown.
You are angry that the imagination dictates
what I must write,

but it’s also a feeling.
I pose for you; a caricature your whole country sees;
It amuses me.
Each penetrating stroke makes me more beautiful,
and fears are in vain.
In internal monologue, not a single thought dawns on me,
only with you I come alive.

I pick up a tarot card,
left by a fortune teller,
kiss it with painted lips,
drop it again.
I rub my heel on the inside of your thigh,
scarlet-crimson stain.
The honeymoon ripens every Christmas.

I don’t understand why honey drips;
Christmas has passed.
I take a pair of sheer stockings from your briefcase;
they are still unspoiled. 

You feel incredibly happy, but gradually
it’s like getting a telegram weeks later.
We talk, 
but reticent kisses smother our words.
You can’t be big all the time.
you can be weak, in love, 
changing everything on a clear spring night.

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