Maya Sarishvili
To my father
I know what makes you scream in your sleep –
snakes rising from the candelabras
light up the room with their tongues.
And how frightening is that droning darkness,
poisoned with a treacherous light . . .
I know how every night you lather your own heart
like soap on your whole body.
How eager to remove the stains
with your own heart’s foam.
Perhaps for that very reason
mother rises up from death every night
to plant roses in your slippers,
where you will move your feet in the morning . . .
Please find the sound of my childhood in our house.
It will probably be somewhere close to a box of sweets.
And if the little marmalade dog barks,
or anything like this,
then the curse has been broken . . .
Translated by Timothy Kercher, Nene Giorgadze
Page(s) 114
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