Ketevan Kanchashvili 

Translator

I beg your pardon, but
All was well in the beginning
He looked like a guardian angel
Of mine

I was wearing a see-through silver dress, singing
He was eyeing me pleased, not interfering
I had a red lipstick on, kissing others
He was watching me with a smile, not interfering,
I was looking him in the eyes, ruining things
He was staring at me calmly, not interfering;
He said it would pass and laughed
He said I shouldn’t worry and hugged me
He said there is no love, watching me closely
He never asked for anything
I undressed myself;
And I stood before him, ready for the gas chamber
The poison filling it gradually, pleasantly,
We moved to his camp – living together the two of us
The camp was secret and restricted
He would bring some food in the evening
I listened to his theories about (allegedly) fascist love
I liked that
All was well in the beginning
I loved him
All was well in the beginning
Until I decided to carve my number on my wrists
The number of his possession
Of my ownership
I did not have a red lipstick on any more
Or a see-through dress
I was his personal blind pet
Unable to cross a street alone
I was standing in the camp in a chosen corner
Waiting for him, waiting for
Guess what?
The fusillade
In fact
Being shot
Is not that painful
I know that now
And also I know:
Bull shit!
There are no personal angels
Let alone, guardian!
Let alone, men!

It's time to think about my duties,
It's time to think why my family fell apart.
Certainly because I worked;
Certainly because I was beautiful;
Certainly because my voice was loud;
Certainly because I refused to sacrifice myself.
And for some reason I never believed
That love is a five-minute sex before going to asleep
Or walking out of a supermarket proudly
With my husband carrying dozens of packages
Nor did I believe that love is
Strolling hand-in-hand
Being pregnant
Living in a comfortable apartment,
Or walking two steps behind my husband,
I guess, that's why it was dissolved
It's time to think about my duties and believe:
That only he can be exhausted;
But I have to fill the pockets of my apron with
Drying laundry, a finger burnt on a frying-pan, fits of jealousy,
The nose pressed against glass, the diapers the happy end of TV shows,
And live like that:
With patience and obedience - it isn't so bad,
It all depends on how you look at it.
But no matter how I looked at it, I saw the same picture.
It's time to be a few times tenderer (but not sexier),
Even when he smells of another woman,
And support the family like a small wedge of wood
Inserted under a wobbly table leg;
Yes, to save the family for a little while longer

I need to keep a low profile.
I should generally like to keep my head down all the time.
I must not make love on Wednesdays and Fridays,
Unless he drunkenly gropes me
Then I should gently push him away and point up to God,
And he will say: It's not God's business, you’re my wife!
Then we will light a candle. Regret our love.
It's time for me to enjoy sacrificing myself,
Because, assuming, God,
Gave me breasts and vagina
But him superior private parts.
It's time to worship them if I want to propagate.
It's time to wash his feet
And never steal my glance upper than that
Only see him from his feet to knees and from his shoulders to forehead.
Other parts of his body I should see only in the darkness.
It's time for him to cut off my head as if I were a dragon,
Because there is not enough space for me.
It's time for him to be the chief and the breadwinner.
While I make a daily list _ today we need bread, mayonnaise, oil, green vegetables,
Modestly adding in the end
- hygienic pads.
And be happy with just that.
I guess, it's time.

But I remember:

Once a man really washed my feet and he loved me.
Once I really washed a man's feet and I loved him.
And at that moment neither of us remembered about the holy scriptures.
And at moment neither of us remembered about any declaration.
And we had
Two bodies.
Two heads.
Four hands and four feet
And there was enough space for us.