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m_d_hWhat do you write with in a stranger's bed?
I know these empty sheets, this backward-falling light,
this stove where my shaking fingers slowly warm.
And the poet who translates these words
to a city where the streetlights pulse with gin
instead of vodka, instead of brandy, wine,
will mistake you, domovoi, for a metaphor,
will mistake me for someone who could stay.
by Sonya Taaffe
I know these empty sheets, this backward-falling light,
this stove where my shaking fingers slowly warm.
And the poet who translates these words
to a city where the streetlights pulse with gin
instead of vodka, instead of brandy, wine,
will mistake you, domovoi, for a metaphor,
will mistake me for someone who could stay.
by Sonya Taaffe