Odessa

Summer you took in your hands like a watermelon
And bit into the ripe red flesh.
You stumbled through the market,
Brushing against dead animals still in their fur,
Like a sailor looking for the nearest brothel.

Dust under my fingernails, under my eyelids,
A cool quiet courtyard
Safe from the yowling street,
I was dead, or not myself,
Outlandish and here.

Kindzmarauli:
Stalin’s favourite wine,
Sweetness of paradise
That he too dreamed of;
I raise my glass to the light,
Hypnotized by the gleam…
On the seafront
Watching the sun set
Across the port,
I wonder who sailors pray to,
If they pray at all.

The beach deserted in winter:
Just a few old men playing chess,
Packs of stray dogs roam the sand, howling and whimpering,
The cantor’s voice rises
In the synagogue of my eye.

Don’t ask for black pearls.
Take black bread and honey.
This dust you ignore
Falls from distant stars.

You stood in the doorway,
Munching on a gherkin,
And laughed: “If I knew what I really wanted,
Just think what a mess I’d be in!”