Maya Sarishvili
To the neighbour
Look, the cold heating pipes
rise from your ceiling to our floor
and then go down again.
Our apartments are threaded on those bones,
in which there is death and nothing more.
They have stitched us together
floor by floor with this iron corpse
so that we won’t escape
from a shared despair . . .
You told me how my mother was dying,
how she screamed: ‘Help me, I beg you.’
And since then
that endless sentence is my bookmark –
always reminding me where I am,
where I stop . . .
Translated by Timothy Kercher, Nene Giorgadze
Page(s) 114-5
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