Ivan Pentchoukov

Stillborn

In the days of sun and the nights of moon,
When water was for swimming and drinking,
And shoes for walking indoors, your godmother
Told you that sleeping past midday, during sunset,
Will get you a headache when you wake.
You slept anyway and walked to the river in the dark.

You peel your face from the pillow. It is already dark.
The noise from the exhaust pipe and the moon
Pains its way through the open window. Your hobbies wake
And stare at you from their nests around the room, drinking
Memories from you dry eyes. The sunset
Passed in a moment. You fold the face of your godmother

And hold it in your sweating palm as your godmother
Folds you. Shining his shoes, your mad neighbor bangs in the dark.
The difficulty to raise a hand. You sunset
Into the folds of your aching bed, force the sights of the moon,
Into silent rooms of your maze, where the child that loved grass is drinking
From a dry cup with his left hand — you wake.

Rubbing the terror from your eyes you survey the wake,
Poorly attended, and from the tattered table of which, your godmother
Is mysteriously absent, of all that was sun to the drinking
And swimming child. No luxury, no thing, can be the hand to pull away this dark.
Your dry elbows sink into the sheets as you moon
Above a glass of dusty water. You fold your sunset

Into your sunset pain. You fold your sunset
Pain into your sunset pain. You wake
The lightbulb with your fingertips. You place the unscored moon
Shaped tablet on your tongue. You taster godmother
Ibuprofen, Acetominophen. The dark
Ache fades, recalcitrant, into the nests of kitchen, as you stand drinking.

The contrasts of the cabinets soften, slowly drinking
The dulled ends of your neurons. This is the sunset
Of today’s terror. The night is still ahead. Out of the dark
Breathing machinery lights pulsate as the systems wake.
Your clenched fists reminds you to open it and look at your godmother.
Waste and empty the moon.