Screams and hair come out
of my night-time poems,
but my husband comes,
in his hands a comb and scissors,
no, rather a stiff brush and a knife …
Oh my dear gray-eyed king,*
why is there so much steel in your hands,
why is there surgery in your gaze?
Why do you cut off everything
and throw it to the dogs outside,
don’t you feel pity:
it still moves, can’t you see?
All right, I’ll shut up, I won’t, I’ll shut up,
it comes out quite beautiful, I can see,
a bald little hedgehog, without any sprouts or fins,
no fleas, that’s true, but also no fur,
yes, really, really good,
oh, what are you doing my dear …?
And what about your own daytime sonnets, daytime sonatas?
I too, I too will come, and you will show me,
I’ll also smile with all my iron teeth
and cut down not just the ultimate flesh—to put it crudely,
the foreskin—
but all the way down to the ultimate measure
and so utterly clean and beautiful, tasty and strong
will be your two lines, your two legs,
my two arms
Translated by Vitaly Chernetsky
* A reference to Anna Akhmatova’s poem “The Gray-Eyed King” (translator’s note).