body / kitchen / text (.olga glustikova)

Poems from an upcoming collection ATLAS OF BIOLOGICAL WOMEN
awaiting release in December 2017:

her dirty cup
has its own intimacy:
hips warm and round to touch
three times a day it touches
bread crust
complexion is silent
silent is the home
there is too little kitchen in poetry

maybe she will use her skirt
to wipe the table – dip her arms
in an open wardrobe, find a home when touching her face
while putting on make-up
and close the door at last
maybe she will use a poem
as a padded bra
so as not to be what she ought to be
there, where she lives and where she is
maybe she will ritually
paint her face before the everyday
battle, moved to places
designated for men
instead of a nametag on the door:
a poem about a house where they found dirty

at night between two and three
a meteorite was falling – a mere flash
and my mother told me
that is how long it lasts
being a you know what…
because of grandma she knows
there is something inside her
growing heavier every day
something about to fall:
a womb as an ancient stone

we need to say that her predecessors
were women doctors, female soldiers, snipers,
mothers of three, cleaners and cooks
and her:
ever since childhood as if immaterial
just a little anthropomorphic
a little humanoid
always in a difficult frame of mind
washed with a shampoo with no scent
a girl’s plaid cut off
eating canned fish, she thinks
about her amorphousness
worried she will turn into a man
as soon as she takes off her bra

I tried
to shoot an air gun to my own land
hang the thickest sweaters in a women’s wardrobe and wait
break my mother’s blue-patterned bowl and never,
never sweep again
listen to the talk about marriages that never happened, fell apart
or ended with death
I tried
listening to this house’s bloodstream
during the Sunday lunch chicken sacrifice

I tried
to think about how I was created
and what for



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