by Runa Svetlikova


There are no witnesses to the retreat to yesteryear, the ascent of

14 times 13 steps, the right hand on a banister that she

slid off long ago, a little suitcase in the left. No-one

to see how callous, liver spot and wrinkle disappear. In the house


that was taken from her no-one ever lived what she lost never

existed. Muscles grow stronger hair regains its colour drooping breasts

dissolve in baby fat a child that died was not begot. She stares

over the edge at the traffic and all who inexplicably continue


focuses on falling. She cautiously looks left then right and left

again, goes into the street with the suitcase. Each moment is possibly

the moment in which she reaches the shortest possible distance to the ground


implodes in space and time. Each moment is possibly the moment

in which it’s tomorrow, an alarm rings. Someone has escaped the fall.

Someone yawns, rubs their eyes and gets up.

Translated by Willem Groenewegen