Where do our dreams go when we’re not sleeping?
I’ve dreamed of you so much
it’s no longer right
for me to waken.
You were the one who held his hand
after the fist fight that left his knuckles
like red wine on fresh-turned dirt.
All this time, and I always wanted to ask
if his blood on your hands
felt some kind of sacred.
I don’t think either of us were ever
any good for him.
Because you loved him bruised,
and I loved him bloody—
I know how it sounds, believe me, and
I have torn through rabbit holes
hunting for a better heart,
but I’ve got a weak spot for broken boys
is my most disgusting feature.
You may not have loved him well,
but at least you loved him halfway whole.
Me? I would have kissed
the broken teeth from his mouth
and kept them all for myself.
I would have cracked open his crème brûlée chest
and eaten out the insides—
hung up his twisted x-rays on my walls
so I could never forget the look of a ruined heart.
I don’t break them myself, you see.
I just go collecting in the aftermath.
Grave robber for the still alive:
I may not kill anyone,
but I have never been afraid
to take what I need
Some are born posthumously.
I no longer remember you separately
as a face but a white emptiness
without true features. All – is a
whiteness. (My spirit is one
—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the Mountain” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)
Love is flesh, it is a
flower flooded with blood.
—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)
A kiss on the forehead—erases misery.
I kiss your forehead.
A kiss on the eyes—lifts sleeplessness.
I kiss your eyes.
A kiss on the lips—is a drink of water.
I kiss your lips.
A kiss on the forehead—erases memory.