We . . .
Chaos of hazel, disheveled after rain,
the smell of fatty nuts’ pulp,
cows give birth in the heavy air
in sheds burning down like stars.—
O, currants and ripe grains
juiciness surging at the brush,
o, she-wolves nursing little ones,
their wolf eyes sweet as lilies!
The honeyed apiarydom of resins drips,
the goat’s udder round like a pumpkin—
white milk flows like eternity
in the maternal breast of temples.
And we . . .
. . . in hermetic
as a steel thermos
little cubes of peach wallpapers,
tangled up to the neck in dresses,
A poem by Zuzanna Ginczanka (1917-1945), translated from the Polish by Alex Braslavsky, Asymptote Journal.