Translated by: Elizabeta Žargi and Timothy Liu
He arrived late, as usual. No grounds
for harmony any longer. Things had become
banal: life, writing, all superfluous.
He was lying next to me, holding me,
and in that moment I became aware
of a scent. Flinched, checked again,
but nothing. It was clear. I started
to heave, got up and rushed
to the bathroom. Tried to get some air
through an open window, everything
spinning. A man’s scent.
The years from which I’d been running
had returned. Whose scent?
When did it arrive? Had it been here
before? Or was it the scent of another man
on him? He didn’t follow me, didn’t knock,
but remained there, too far.
I shivered, locked up on the floor.
It didn’t help. A step-father’s hand
shot after me, a man’s hand,
my head blown off. Each time
he came near, I’d get out of the way
even if the hand was far. The scent
already enough. It was impossible
to get it out of the apartment. I had to
step away from men, hadn’t liked
their world. Which one did I belong to
now? Did I give off such a scent
when hitting someone else?
How it hurts now. Shall I unlock the door,
shall I wash him? Is it possible? Shall I
bundle up somewhere else and try to fall asleep without him?