© 2021 by Maria Muzdybaeva
(Un)titled
Today I was called a poet
for the first time,
and I am taking my duties seriously.
I listen to the soft slurp with which
the soil in the pots soaks up the water.
I go to the park and check
the spring’s progress:
I notice that the chestnut leaves look
like closed umbrellas on the beach
(closed not for long now).
I look at the pond:
the breeze on the water’s surface
is pixelating the reflection
like a glitch during a Skype call,
then quickly disappears.
Now a lonely mallard
is swimming across the pond,
his emerald head glowing in the sun.
He’s moving so fast that the water
still holds his trace far behind him.
Up in the sky, a plane
is drawing a line
perfectly parallel to the one in the pond.
I am standing on the bridge
between these lines
like a word in my notebook.
first published in Sky Island Journal, Issue 10
as "Untitled"
Hiding Strategies
My mother told me
not to touch my face:
it’s bad for the skin.
Oh, but I couldn’t care less;
all I want is to hide it
from the CCTV that’s hanging
in the corner of the room
like a wasp nest.
I want to touch my face,
to feel it slowly
like blind people do in films,
to learn it anew,
to reclaim it
from the girl in the mirror
who gets up too early
looking discontent
and treats it
as but a surface for make-up.
Which is just another
hiding strategy,
like headphones,
or running after dark,
or writing in your second language.
You can’t see me, can you.
first published in Sky Island Journal, Issue 10
Another One for the White Nights
It’s warm; I go home on foot.
A sandal strap is scratching
a mosquito bite on my ankle,
which makes me think of X.
(but I shouldn’t I shouldn’t I shouldn’t)
I come home and check
how much I’ve walked today
and I turn off my phone
an hour before going to bed,
but then I dream of floods
and boys my age
of handwriting I can’t make out
of a ripped dress
I wake up and look
through my curtainless window.
At 4 am, the sky is radiant cyan,
glowing like an aquamarine.
You never really get used to it,
which, at the end of the day,
gives one hope.
And I want to be hopeful:
open-minded, light-hearted,
nimble-footed,
endearing as I am enduring.
I want to love
the sewing needle
as much as I love
the one that leaves ink
on my skin forever.
I want to never feel the shame
of running to catch
the last subway train—
and missing it.
I want to remember
the apple tree by the building,
the hotter summers and the colder winters,
being allowed to play outside
on my own. We were the last ones,
but it’s fine.
I want to think that it’s fine.
I want the itch to stop.
first published in Willawaw Journal, Issue 7