I, Mariya, burn your fingers.
Anyone knows what “stay” means in
body-language, eloquent just a while ago.
And you can talk as long as you like about the difference
between whorishness and a German
porn classic.
I, Mariya, use few words and speak softly.
It’s like a taste of you, i.e.—of grown-up you,
plus one or two other odd secrets:
when you do your eyes, the liner makes them look
shifty, though—it’s easy to get the age wrong,
but that’s not what I’m on about now.
I, Mariya, easily change over to signs.
Written words, for that reason vulgar, but I cannot
not write even if it’s just a line a day, just
to exchange elementary “hi theres”
“take cares” with you keeping one’s distance
accordingly.
I, Mariya, will watch out for a visual rhyme.
As you saw, this dependency is unconnected
with your body, but they aren’t just linear,
the links. And assuming you yourself have been deprived
of sense (since the two of us add up
to forty), often I’m in pain.
Translated by Daniel Weissbort