from ye-ye songs
Moon
made from mint,
lips
made from the city,
on X-Ray bridges
flesh
looks for its candles,
fingers—
for long perspective lines
so that it could join them,
something dark
fell out of the skin
and out of the date of birth
into the negative of water
but no bicycles came
smudged by knees
to chase after it,
a taxicab drove up
with bones in place of its engine
bringing along print
skulls use
to make themselves look pretty,
a detachment of teeth
is being put through its paces
by a pile of bricks,
railroad tracks that form a cross
bring to people's backs
landscapes
which they try to shun
but which gave birth to them.
On this side
of mirrors,
by the marshes
of glass,
next to hands
that creak
like doors,
there live the yellow
descendants,
they button
daisies
instead of buttons,
on their teeth,
instead of on their shirts,
they watch
legs
full of seeds
like sunflowers
that follow the sun,
they pluck petals
from them
to better see
horizons
and their own skin,
they marvel at their fingers
that pull
endless blades of straw
out of their cheeks,
they water their names
with water
no one notices
under the print.
The mirrors turn yellow
like paper
and menstrual blood
full of shiny
scissors
cuts them up into strips
to get rid of
the traces
of babies' feet
from the rusty stains
on themselves
and on suspension
bridges.
London Bridge
sees it already
and cries
rusty
tears,
and rose-colored
girls
find deep sighs
under their dark
hips
and extend them
to its emaciated
face
with its profile
of the thinnest of rectangles,
and they press
to their sunken hands
the beginnings
of its green
beard
that shows
signs
of torture.
It leaves behind
angles
of its viscous
triangles
on the dark sides
of letters
and molecules
but you can see already
the shadow
of its fingers
looking like smiles
in the corners
of mouths
that can't
free themselves
from under beds
and babies,
and it puts on
impermeable
vestments,
and turns
to the four corners
of the world,
and makes the signs
of circles
and rectangles,
and leaves behind
fireproof
crosses
on the rumpled,
abandoned
retinas,
and it gives away
buckles
full of flowers
to holes
in tattered clothing
so that they'd pass them on
to the bones
that live on the outskirts
of teeth
and rain,
and gums
raise themselves
to the level
of pink asphalt,
and saliva
calls onto fingers
to dig out
hips
from under neon
and to cover them
with phosphorus
and men's hands,
and last names
loosen their manes
of long woman's hair
and red letters,
and legs and borders
spread wide,
to let it get to
the splinters
in stubborn hands
and in broken
countries.
It's still sick,
it still hasn't recovered
from factories
and paper,
with a name
behind which set
customs
and the sun,
made up of letters
so thin
it can be destroyed
even
by tears....
Let's pray
that the Lord
won't call it back
to his side.
Yuriy Tarnawsky has authored more than two dozen books of poetry, fiction, drama, and essays in English and Ukrainian. His most recent publications are collections of mininovels The Placebo Effect Trilogy (JEF Books) and a book of poems Modus Tollens (Jaded Ibis Press). He is currently working on a book of creating writing exercises and a new collection of poetry.