***

The black parachute of anxiety grows

in your chest and opens up—and clenches so much

that it squeezes your heart through your throat . . .

Out of the shell of the body little brother Brutus

breakfasts on my soul (on purpose even

using a tiny silver spoon): you are tasty, little Ivan.

Bloody ants. Sweet briar. A slaughterhouse. Lechery.

I close my eyes—it grows dark in my head,

the light disappears: from the depth the wicked

sickle of the moon turns silver. Above your ear. Somewhere here.

Translated by Michael M. Naydan