Victor Ivaniv (Виктор Iванiв)

Like a sweet tree
passing over a sleigh
everything seems to be on tiptoe
and viands for piglets
or does it smell of camphor
or are they slashing open pillows
and the backwards windows
sun falling into stomach
 
I feel sick they opened vinegar
the voices muffled in the noise
but what’s more embarrassing than a bite
where the flea jumps a stitch is moved
they are pulling
that sleigh and paint something
and bless the dream while the skin peels
a whale for a cheap tabernacle
 
and the fat priest stands in his kiosk
smelling of honey fish wax
and the girl’s button nose spins
spins in her freckled face
there is an English pipe under the table
and angels sit around the heavens
as they chat but they aren’t rude
awaiting death obediently
 
dad and I lift up our heads
this is our school
we run home down the stairs...
and from the blood
our big eyes open, I am big
but we are shy
after all our blood drips on the boards
here we are with a busted lip
take out a cigarette
we can even smile
eyes closed tight like gold