eshleman's metro vavin
a poem about my destiny
I want to talk about the stone that is bigger than all my clothes.
It is greener than what I eat. That is not my neighbor's mistake.
The stone was here. I was not here.
My mother wore leather shoes even though we were poor.
It is alright, my father gave her a wedding-gift.
He gave her and gave her, my father, he gave her a sperm-gift,
he gave her muscles, he gave her the horse I dreamed about.
I will leave this place called Paris. My mother will not be waiting.
But something will be. I mean, something is eating and eating.
I think the stone is bigger than all my clothes.
Listen to me if you are smaller or bigger than me.
I think about my missing size, about my sister with both of my eyes.
It is dim now and I must leave my café.
I go home to stone, to my walking up and turning around.
I go home to something hard.
I want to write about what will happen,
but I do not think it will be here.
What happens when you turn the doorknob.
What happens when you pass a woman crying.
I was born the fourth child in a family of eight.
I say this and do not believe. I say this and see leather.
Her leather shoes, split and open with soap.
And still I want to talk about stone.
And still the floor is wet
and my own mouth is wet for food.
Don't come to my house. There is only some heavy blankets.
It is greener than what I eat. That is not my neighbor's mistake.
The stone was here. I was not here.
My mother wore leather shoes even though we were poor.
It is alright, my father gave her a wedding-gift.
He gave her and gave her, my father, he gave her a sperm-gift,
he gave her muscles, he gave her the horse I dreamed about.
I will leave this place called Paris. My mother will not be waiting.
But something will be. I mean, something is eating and eating.
I think the stone is bigger than all my clothes.
Listen to me if you are smaller or bigger than me.
I think about my missing size, about my sister with both of my eyes.
It is dim now and I must leave my café.
I go home to stone, to my walking up and turning around.
I go home to something hard.
I want to write about what will happen,
but I do not think it will be here.
What happens when you turn the doorknob.
What happens when you pass a woman crying.
I was born the fourth child in a family of eight.
I say this and do not believe. I say this and see leather.
Her leather shoes, split and open with soap.
And still I want to talk about stone.
And still the floor is wet
and my own mouth is wet for food.
Don't come to my house. There is only some heavy blankets.
translated by metranil vavin from Russian into
French, and translated by clayton eshleman from
French into English.
the english versions are dedicated to denis kelly
French, and translated by clayton eshleman from
French into English.
the english versions are dedicated to denis kelly
Translated by Clayton Eshleman
Page(s) 183
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