by Runa Svetlikova


It’s a festering pin feather

the maniacal licking of dry lips

the endless pouting.


It’s the insatiable drinking

the boorish bellow of laughter.

The shivering in the bath.


It’s the shapeless prayer

said in front of every altar, any god

it’s the unshaken heretic.

It’s everything you once forgot or lost, destroyed

the blessed body in your grave.

Translated by Willem Groenewegen