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Poetry

Queer Shores of Ukraine

By Alex Averbuch
Translated from Ukrainian by Oksana Maksymchuk, Max Rosochinsky & Alex Averbuch
A cycle of Ukrainian poetry on queer love, grief, and the slow passage of time.

it was an unbearably dry fall
our thoughts did not remember the streets
they wandered the day before
 
neighbors with heavy eyelids
left very early
not returning for weeks
 
I fed their animals
understanding neither the language nor the looks
 
we lived in adjoining rooms
but every day you said
you never saw me
that you heard something about salt lakes,
exhausted shores
 
but you’d never seen them
 
you sipped your tea so loud
I could hear it in the yard
 
in the evening you looked through the photos
that I collected in empty homes
and labeled each—
names, dates, locations
 
you took them to your room
you said that you had to find a place for them all on your walls
you said that it would take a lot of time
a lot of time
 
I didn’t ask how much exactly
but I imagined, more or less, our old age
 
sometimes you said goodnight
I understood that it was not for me
 
you’d leave me at such times
with no answers
 
occasionally you left your door open
and then I’d tell myself that tonight I was welcome
 
and then your eyes looked up
but not at me
but that was enough
 
I always left when it was still dark
not to startle you in the morning
 
then you’d wake up, open the door
step out of the room
and life was eternal again

 
***
 
my day aches at the root
doesn’t go into the trunk
 
groans across hallways and floors
bangs its forehead against the wall
 
clambers up to the lung-tops
until the branches wither
 
it’s been so long since I’ve seen any postmen and neighbors
that I’ve forgotten what it’s like
to borrow
oil, earth, and salt
 
to look into eyes
avoiding sharp corners
so as not to tear off another bit of love
 
quickly to get exhausted
from this intimacy
 
not touching you for weeks
young am I, young
 
not getting engorged with
vernal vigor
 
my day is tree hollows filled with voids
 
each is a weathered core
that admits into its circle
neither time, nor the harbingers
 
 
 ***
 
 
you were gone unbearably long

thirsting for weariness of being filled up
you arrive empty-handed
 
I see  
through you
 
roots
close at hand
 
but we dodge it
and I comfort you as I can
 
while you impatiently push
through the dense blackthorns
 
and exhausted shores
paved with bushy paths
 
you shake your head woefully
in your wake
a freshly mown path
 
like a sheaf I bow down
before you
my scytheman!
 
not a single bird song heard anymore
nor a human voice
 
how swiftly you chant me
with white dew
 
murky tears flowing
from mountains cut up by ditches
 
surrounded
pour yourself out of your imprisonment
 
onto my will
 
 
 ***
 
 
all night he chased me along the field
of my pleasure
 
until the waves of his sorrow
subsided
 
drunk
with his own power
during the battle
but I would not die
like the ripped earth
or the shot tree
 
then he took a knife
shaved off my hips and drove in
a few nails to stretch a bow
 
so that I would play better
 
now you can’t touch me
 
like a terrible
barely surviving recollection
 

Copyright © Alex Averbuch. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2025 by Oksana Maksymchuk, Max Rosochinsky, and Alex Averbuch. All rights reserved.

English Ukrainian (Original)

it was an unbearably dry fall
our thoughts did not remember the streets
they wandered the day before
 
neighbors with heavy eyelids
left very early
not returning for weeks
 
I fed their animals
understanding neither the language nor the looks
 
we lived in adjoining rooms
but every day you said
you never saw me
that you heard something about salt lakes,
exhausted shores
 
but you’d never seen them
 
you sipped your tea so loud
I could hear it in the yard
 
in the evening you looked through the photos
that I collected in empty homes
and labeled each—
names, dates, locations
 
you took them to your room
you said that you had to find a place for them all on your walls
you said that it would take a lot of time
a lot of time
 
I didn’t ask how much exactly
but I imagined, more or less, our old age
 
sometimes you said goodnight
I understood that it was not for me
 
you’d leave me at such times
with no answers
 
occasionally you left your door open
and then I’d tell myself that tonight I was welcome
 
and then your eyes looked up
but not at me
but that was enough
 
I always left when it was still dark
not to startle you in the morning
 
then you’d wake up, open the door
step out of the room
and life was eternal again

 
***
 
my day aches at the root
doesn’t go into the trunk
 
groans across hallways and floors
bangs its forehead against the wall
 
clambers up to the lung-tops
until the branches wither
 
it’s been so long since I’ve seen any postmen and neighbors
that I’ve forgotten what it’s like
to borrow
oil, earth, and salt
 
to look into eyes
avoiding sharp corners
so as not to tear off another bit of love
 
quickly to get exhausted
from this intimacy
 
not touching you for weeks
young am I, young
 
not getting engorged with
vernal vigor
 
my day is tree hollows filled with voids
 
each is a weathered core
that admits into its circle
neither time, nor the harbingers
 
 
 ***
 
 
you were gone unbearably long

thirsting for weariness of being filled up
you arrive empty-handed
 
I see  
through you
 
roots
close at hand
 
but we dodge it
and I comfort you as I can
 
while you impatiently push
through the dense blackthorns
 
and exhausted shores
paved with bushy paths
 
you shake your head woefully
in your wake
a freshly mown path
 
like a sheaf I bow down
before you
my scytheman!
 
not a single bird song heard anymore
nor a human voice
 
how swiftly you chant me
with white dew
 
murky tears flowing
from mountains cut up by ditches
 
surrounded
pour yourself out of your imprisonment
 
onto my will
 
 
 ***
 
 
all night he chased me along the field
of my pleasure
 
until the waves of his sorrow
subsided
 
drunk
with his own power
during the battle
but I would not die
like the ripped earth
or the shot tree
 
then he took a knife
shaved off my hips and drove in
a few nails to stretch a bow
 
so that I would play better
 
now you can’t touch me
 
like a terrible
barely surviving recollection
 

це була нестерпно-суха осінь
наші думки не пам’ятали вулиць
якими блукали вчора

сусіди з важкими повіками
виходили дуже рано
не повертаючись тижнями

я годував їхніх тварин
не розуміючи ані мови, ані поглядів

ми мешкали у суміжних кімнатах
але щодня ти казав що
ніколи мене не бачив
дещо чув про солоні озера,
знесилені береги

але ніколи не бачив

ти сьорбав чай так
що було чути на дворі

ввечері передивлявся фотографії
що я зібрав по порожніх хатах
і підписував кожну –
імена, дати і місце

ти забирав їх до себе
казав що маєш знайти усім притулок на стінах
казав що на це треба багато часу
дуже багато часу

я не питав скільки конкретно
але приблизно уявляв нашу старість

інколи ти казав добраніч
але я розумів що то не до мене

і залишав мене у такі хвилини
без відповідей

рідко ти залишав двері відчиненими
і тоді я казав собі що сьогодні можна

і тоді очі твої дивилися вгору
а не на мене
але мені цього вистачало

я йшов завжди затемна аби
не лякати тебе вранці

потім ти прокидався, відчиняв двері
виходив з кімнати
і життя знову було вічним

***

мій день ниє на корені
ніяк не йде у стовбур 

стугоніє коридорами, поверхами
упершись лобом у стіну

пнеться до верхівок легень
аж віти посохли

я так давно не бачив поштарів і сусідів
що і забув як воно
позичати
олію, землю і сіль

дивитися у вічі
обминати гострі кути
аби не здерти ще один клаптик любові

швидко виснажуватися
від цієї близькості

не торкатися тебе тижнями
молодий я, молодий

не бубнявіти від
весняної сили

мій день – протягами сповнені дупла

кожний – обвітрена серцевина
не пускає до свого кола
ані часу, ані передвісників

***

тебе не було нестерпно довго

спраглий втоми сповнитися
ти приходиш ні з чим

наскрізь
бачу тебе

а до кореневища –
рукою подати

але ми ухиляємося
і я утішаю тебе як можу

поки ти нетерпляче пнешся
густим тереном

знесиленими берегами
уторованими волохатими стежками

журливо хитаєш головою
бо після тебе –
в житах новий покіс

схилюся жмутом
перед тобою
косаре мій!

і вже не чути ані пташиного співу
ані людського голосу

як швидко ти оспівуєш мене
білими росами

слізьми каламутними
з гір порізаних ровами

оточений
лийся з ув’язнення

на волю мою

***

усю ніч гнав мене полем
мого задоволення

поки не вляглися хвилі
його смутку

мов п’янів
від власних сил
під час бою
але мене не вбивало
як розпороту землю
або прострелене дерево

тоді він узяв ніж
обстругав мої стегна і вбив
кілька гвіздків щоб натягнути луки

аби краще грав

тепер мене не зачепити

як страшний
майже неіснуючий спогад

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