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Let my husband know

Maya Sarishvili

Reading from Southbank Centre's Poetry Parnassus festival, 2012.

Translated from the Georgian by Timothy Kercher and Nene Giorgadze:
Let my husband know
Let my husband know
that this, my veil, sprouted from my skull
like milk bursting with fat spurts from a crusty fissure.
The veil, smoke from the flume.
And I, the blackened chimney
or too-hot porch that releases
globules of milk fat – wisps –
floating to high up places from where there’s no return.
Let my husband know my mother’s soul is a veil –
flown worriedly into my hair to sway me –
but paint
on my flesh still lingers, like a bullet made of diamond.
Let my husband know
I’ll wear a veil of sweetened pigeon meat on the back of my head,
or instead of a veil, I’ll use his letters as covering
as I grow old and transform
like a flower unfolding in boiling water.