Runa Svetlikova


It’s a festering pin feather
the maniacal licking of dry lips
the endless pouting.

It’s the insatiable drinking
the boorish bellow of laughter.
The shivering in the bath.

It’s the shapeless prayer
said in front of every altar, any god
it’s the unshaken heretic.

It’s everything you once forgot or lost, destroyed
the blessed body in your grave.


Translated by Willem Groenewegen

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