#1
Red brick
is the last obstacle
that doesn't allow you
to finally eliminate
your complex
of rough skin
More and more often,
the jazz of your despair—
the yellow music of your
frigidity—forces its way
into the nearby
loudspeakers
For some reason your dog
fell seriously ill this fall
and the yolk of his tongue
leaks slowly from the broken egg
of his head
#2
You often examine
that old photo
we both understand
that you looked
a little funny
in your carefully ironed
high school uniform
For some reason
the following picture
sticks in your memory
like no other:
You (already by yourself)
sit in your father's study
a half-empty glass of wine
with a lipstick imprint
stands opposite on the table
Casanova gave it to you
as a keepsake
#3
In those few months
you always met somewhere
in the midst of broken cars
and half-ruined houses
When you greeted each other
your palms
like embers in cigarette stubs
red and hot
showed from your sleeves
Up until this day
the butterflies of weeping
rush out of your body's dark
to throw themselves
at the lanterns of your eyes
and their ashes
stream down your face
#4
Now you don't even try
to chase away
the dog of temptation
that licks
your half-naked fingers
with greed
In the morning you breathe
onto your mirror
and your exhalation shatters
and slides heavily
down the cold wall of glass
like a man executed
by shooting
Thinking back on you two
people will probably say:
they lived long and happily
and then died—
on the same day and in the same
ghetto
#1
#2
#3
#4
Alan Zhukovski is a poet and translator. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Tin House, New Statesman, The Threepenny Review, Asymptote, Agenda, Plume, Blackbird, The Fortnightly Review, Orbis, and elsewhere.