Russian:
РАДИОАКТИВНАЯ ЗОНА (на тему картины Анри Руссо «Спящий цыган») Помогите, человек проглотил звезду! На песке пустыни с посохом на весу, не дождавшись, что вынесут и спасут, пульс неровен, на боку застыл. Он теперь другой. Лев, его альтер эго, блюдет покой, а нуклиды владеют его водой. Он бездомен. Из далёких стран прибывает взвод обучить бродягу музыке новых нот, но цыган упал. Видно, не найдёт след кочевья. У бродяги отроду нет жилья – не жалеют близкие и жена, не тревожит громкое: «Вот и я!» час вечерний. Здесь живут невнятные племена. Нам чужими кажутся их имена, может, и у них где-то там война – не завидуй. Наглотавшись звёзд, надышавши след, и без нас повымрут – сомнений нет, но сюда доходит незримый свет в лучшем виде. Идеальный выдался полигон. И солдат доволен – отличье он получил – и дальше, траншею вон в поле роет. А цыган лежит – неприятный тип! От него остался дагерротип. Зарисовка. Кадр. Дигитальный клип. Полароид. ** The Radioactive Zone “Help! The PID* swallowed a star. On the desert floor with the cane pressed to heart not expecting to be saved or carried out, pulse irregular, on his side unmoving, he’s changed, possessed. Alter ego, the lion, guards his peace. Nuclides aren’t stable. Heavy water breaks. He is a barren hobo. Over.” Here comes a squad from far lands or stars to enlighten the thingy, to teach him sounds of the novel notes yet he’s on the ledge, desperate to locate the lame traces of peripatetic world of his. No yurt or wife - who needs such life, no one cares whether he has lice or lost his voice. His pathetic cry doesn’t shake the air. Those who live in desert are flaky tribes. Their names are weird, they must be at war. Nothing to envy, nothing to muster from. They’re bloated from their diet of starry dust, they blow in awe on frozen glass, they’re scarce. Packed with own invisible light, they’ll die with no help from us. Overall, the site’s ideal for explosions and tests. The soldier does his best, decorated and praised. He will dig his crest, and the gypsy … Let'em rest. The grist for the mill, the photo-op, maybe he’s inbred. We never liked him to begin with. Maybe he’s a poster. A gypsy imprint. A study. A frame a minute. Galina Itskovich *PID – a person in distress (cop lingo) Galina Itskovich Galina Itskovich graduated from the Hunter College School of Social Work. She practices psychotherapy, teaches, translates and writes poetry and prose in two languages. Her work appeared in The Write Launch, Harpy Hybrid Review, Poetica, Asian Signature, Unlikely Stories, Cardinal Points, Former People, Global Insides, Contemporary Jewish Writing, and elsewhere. She is the author of one book of poems (in Russian). Galina Itskovich lives in New York City.
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November 2024
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