My hair was always
cut short
so nobody knew
that you left me
your thick heavy braids
I was taught to address you with a plural “You”
as if there was more than one person
in your body
otherwise, how could you
have endured
your frightening life
alone
frightened, you hid
in the swamp of ice
under the weight
of wet braids
my name is a mirror
of your name
green seeds of my eyes
grew out of yours
but I
sold
your inheritance
for a dry
crumb of freedom
I cut
long and thick
umbilical hair
I thought I unburdened
myself
but even invisible
the braid grows
with memory
we spent three years together
and then headed out
in two opposite directions
you under the earth
and me onto the earth
Two cold coins
on your eyelids
the green lace of pine paws
Our fields are our sea
Having cut
the umbilical braid
you are inside a wooden boat
sailing
toward the navel of the earth
Far from the snow-choked fields
Far from the dry and embittered grass
Far from hayfields and winter crops
Far from chimneys and crosses
From Motherfield, copyright 2022 by Julia Cimafiejeva. Translation © 2022 by Valzhyna Mort and Hanif Abdurraqib. Reprinted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
