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Yuliya Kunina

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Inconsistent Self Portrait

I am half Russian, 30, almost got my MA,
1 metre 67, on the list and registered,
fragments of an encyclopaedia, excerpts from a dictionary,
three languages, to synopsise.
Here are my eyes: people say they’re beautiful.
Here is my long nose.
My lips are plum-coloured, or bilberry coloured, or
      lipsticked,
whatever.
Here is my profile: people say it’s Nubian,
or perhaps Jewish, or really Russian,
the devil knows what the devil’s mixed together.
Here is my thieving magpie’s habit.
Here is my decisive chin,
although what is it decisive about?
Here are my shoulders – shoulder blades protruding. – I like to
compare them to Natasha’s, but they are more like a bird’s:
you can squeeze it in your fist, just fluff and feathers.
The journey down, of course, conceals temptations.
I am made out of differing and different
old girls and interesting ladies,
Renoir women and dubious personages,
suffragettes and faithful wives, and these, whom I don’t know
who were humiliated in the prefeminist era.

But this is, so to speak, bragging, or rather a hide,
pimply frog skin,
loved by Jew and fool
which I am telling you about.

And so, I crawl, smouldering in ash,
like a serpent or tortoise,
commanding the thunder with my mind.

Translated by Richard McKane

Page(s) 114

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