"koshka" poems
In an otherwise quiet snowlit night
the chelloveck ahead has shuffle-skitch shoes.
I have clock clock boots.
The fog train to Voksal at this distance
hoots like a toy. Some meters trailing
someone’s step is a sticky squick-squick.
As I turn left, I think of nothing
save cognac, cognac and koshka (Marusya),
the mild entertainments of loneliness so far removed
from my mother tongue:
through snow-covered courtyards the dogs hours ago abandoned.
What good is it to be fluent in one’s own language
when the mashrutka slush and hiss
down Yulitsa Kikvidze in the distance?
At home, the cat chews the cords to the blinds
of the kitchen window, her wants
more important than mine.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
little chicken. chickadee. flown. flying. grabbed between the talons of an alternate state of consciousness.
taken. observed.
not a piece. not my own.
her little chicken. kuritza. maya charoshaya kuritza. koshka.
soft safety scratches. reminders of a care(free)less childhood.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC