Linor Goralik  (Линор Горалик)

Translator

                  To Korney Chukovsky, who wrote Fedora's Grief —
                 a scary children's poem about one nasty housewife who never
                 washed her dishes until they ran away from her.

That night, 
that warm spring night 
he passed from door to door 
and told them all to get ready. 
Some were given a heads-up, 
most of them weren't. 

At first he was mortified 
so sure 
that something will give them away: 
the bewildered hubbub of hutches, 
the rusty rattle of roasters, 
china's hysterical chiming. 

Than it became irrelevant. 

Long-faced herring dishes were wailing, 
little vodka glasses trembled, confused, 
red-faced irons, heavily droopy, 
herded and blocked the doorways. 
Grey plates were flying around, 
loosing their musty bearings, — 
spotted tablecloths, 
dirty kitchen wipes, 
grandma's sacred napkins. 

Sticky-fingered greasy roaster 
swiftly put silver spoons in his mouth. 
The old saltcellar was shaking her dusty, well-thumbed sister 
who mumbled hysterically: 
— She will catch us and kill us! 
She will catch us and kill us! 

He clumsily hit her 
with his split wooden hand. 
She closed her holes. 

When they've finally started to walk downhill, 
the whole village was eyeballing them, 
every window was staring. 
When they've got to the river, 
Fedora's stomping was already making 
his dim iron sides 
tremble. 

Those dragging behind were cursing on him, 
falling into ditches, coming off. 
Those in the middle were crying, cursing on him — 
— yet walking, 
Nobody led the way — 
only him, 
with his bending old legs, 
covered head to toe in a sticky yet silent horror 
of responsibility 
and doubts. 

When they've finally reached the river, — 
all broken, creaked and fractured, — 
he turned to them and said: 
“You shall see, 
we will enter this water 
and come out all new.” 

At that moment the waters parted.

                     To Alexander Barash

How can anyone write poetry after January 14, 1942? 
After February 6, 1943? After March 11, 1952? 
How can anyone write poetry after September 11, 1917? 
After July 1917? After March 1984? 
How can anyone write poetry after November 6, 1974? 
April 4, 1965? August 1, 1902? 
May 8, 1912? 
How can anyone write poetry after the 26th of the last month? 
After June 10 of the last year? After June 12? 
After December 14, 1922? 
After the last Thursday? 
After what happened today at three? 
Only November 1, 1972 has probably been worse. 
Or maybe April 12, 1973 was even more horrifying. 
Or August 6, 1986. September 4, 1913. Or, say, 
July 25, 1933. Or July 26. 
Someone probably fell off a wheeled library ladder, 
broke his back, will never move again. 
Someone probably died 
made a mistake 
exploded himself together with the hostages 
Someone's kid must have ran out for an ice cream 
just a couple of blocks away 
and never came back. 
No, just around the corner. No, literally, just the next door. 
No, he came back, eighteen years later, on March 25. 
No, twelve years ago, on November 24, at 3 PM. 
Died on the 26th of the last month. 
Wrote a single poem, a really bad one.

And here the snow keeps 
keeps rising up 
and falling. 
And in that snow we keep 
keep rising up 
and falling. 
And they keep shaking it 
(the globe) 
keep shaking 
shaking

              For Hayut

Eve comes home from her pre-school day
(two years old this Saturday)

— Honey, what were you doing today?
— Beating Jay.

Jay's destiny has just started rolling —
there it's rolling.
Eve's destiny is gonna start rolling —
there it's rocking.

When Death comes home from the cemetery, 
she passes kitchen where the dinner's waiting 
and passes on the bed, shoes on, exhausted. 

You stop and hold your breath and fork and knife; 
you need a moment for the appetite 
to overcome the stale exasperation —

Just like it does on every morning when 
she climbs on top of you and starts to wriggle.