May/June 2000

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Irina Ratushinskaya

...

Today the morning is ashy-haired.

And, embracing her slender knees,

Lazily watches the scattered birds

In the damp sky. The burden of renewal

Is weightless today; in this bottomless respite

There is no sorrow and no shore.

Only the straps of discarded sandals

Imprinted on crossed ankles.

And the carefree gaze is attracted to the fragments

Of spiral shells, drying nets,

Grains of sand, and pine needles,

And the resonance and lightness of being in the world.

My dog,

Dog who does not exist!

I have no one else—come and lick my wounds.

On this, the most pitiless of planets,

I'm not afraid while I'm with you.

We're laden down and here in this wide world,

Where you are my only shield, shaggy friend,

We must live for who knows how much longer.

But then, so they promise, we can go home.

And they'll let us both in—

You can come too.

You, who have risked your skin

To save me from harm.

There you will live.

Dog who does not exist.

These poems are taken from Irina Ratushinskaya's Wind of the Journey, a volume of new and collected poems and just published by Cornerstone Press. Used with permission.