Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2019  Vol. 18 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
 print preview
translation from Russian by Boris Kokotov

A Plot

Summer, a roomy cabin, somebody passes by.
Bushes behind the fencing—open the wicket, try.

Somebody in the kitchen rattles a can. The mist
of kerosene still lingers—the smell I cannot resist.

Plenty of soupy water, an elder’s leaf sticks to skin.
A voice from the darkness is calling out to me, in vain.

Tender and free of care, that time has gone forever,
dotted by names.
Our land is square, its population scarce.

Next to the fence I stand looking through it at the land
wistfully, night after night.
I, its foster grandchild.  

return to top