the son
of the son
of the lion
is spring,
waiting for dumplings
soaked in eggs and cream,
folded, stirred, and served
by the swollen hands of the lawyer.

the thick winds that tousle his bangs
smell of fifth floor aubergines
swimming in humid tomatoes.
our ankles wade
through the typhoid bathwater
that also cleans chickens and babies.
a wooden sword severs the stream,
dragged along the halls
by a Thumbelina warrior.
the cleft river smooths itself.

and the lawyer takes me to the balcony,
to speak of constitutions,
and babies in snowy playgrounds,
of dying eyes
and dying,
and infinite boredom
cradled in new flats.

I have never felt this fear, I say
and the lawyer is incredulous
no?
her lazy eye widens
and appears to glance at mine for a moment
no.
never?
never.
the swollen hands pour me more orange soda,
sifting through the bowl of chocolates
like sand

the son
of the son
of the lion
sits on the floor building bridges,
an engineer of reverie
in his trundle bed.
The swollen hand arrives at his mouth
with a forkful of Pierogis,
wiping his lip with its finger simultaneously.
He listens to our conversation,
to the lawyer’s fear
her dying freedom.
Who must I be to him?
Some shard of childhood
he’ll store and resurrect
when he becomes a writer.
the day, they brought me
on the tram to Krasno Selo,
through the shortcut,
tripping over tumbleweeds and bricks.

– Nika Sabasteanski