"A country in the shape of a puddle, on the map." by Lyudmyla Khersonska

 

Lyudmyla  Khersonska

A country in the shape of a puddle, on the map.

Any country is an easy target in March,
in June, July, August, September, October,
as long as it rains
and maps litter the street.

Stop, who goes there, General Oaken Knees.
The Red Square of his naked chest shines the way.
And behind him, a half-shadow, half-man,
half-orphan, half-exile, whose mouth is as coarse
as his land —

double-land where every cave is at war.

Do you say there won’t be a war? I say nothing.

A small gray person cancels
this twenty-first century,
adjusts his country’s clocks
for the winter war.

Translated from the Russian by Valzhyna Mort