Saturday, April 02, 2022

How Autumn Begins

 

 


[autumn begins with something trivial]  
—Written by Ella Yevtushenko, translated by Yury Zavadsky

autumn begins with something trivial: keys forgotten in another city, silver coins of cough in the throat, a Turkish cup of tea,

copper coins, water in the battery,

hail,

I did not feel it, and it is already here, huddling a stray cat, rubbing its legs

leaving faded leaves on jeans

only on such a rainy night there can be a knock on the balcony door, only on such a rainy night can it be opened

but who will be behind it depends on whether the nut fell asleep on its guard under the window, whether the pines will reach the torn hem of the clouds.

and whether lightning repeats the pattern of veins on your temples.

autumn begins with something childish — it knocks on the door and runs away; I want to read all day in bed; you are wrapped like a mummy, damp gauze of mist —

and continues with something old: it does not take any alcohol, a diamond of cold pulsates in its knees
and so again — every time — and every time this is the first topic of conversation

as if there is nothing more important than this autumn, wet as a morning under a prematurely peeled crust

it steals airtime from work conversations, intercepts a wave of gossip, lies down with a stray cat on the balcony, where piles of secrets should gather.

autumn drives us to the kitchen and makes us put the kettle on

autumn begins with something trivial, but grows quickly like other people’s children

a penny of winter will roll out of its cold womb, the snow will cover the mummified us, frozen in half a word

then, no one knocks on the balcony window in the middle of the night any longer
and then there is a general risk of ceasing to exist for a while


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Born in 1996, Ella Yevtushenko has published an acclaimed debut collection, Lichtung, and won multiple poetry competitions in Ukraine. For more poetry from Ukraine, see the following sites:

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—Medusa