the bird flies out,

the nestling

watches her from its nest:

the swing of her wings,

the turn of her tail,

the air yielding under them.

horizon is tilted,

the world around

gets tightened in an egg.

if she doesn’t come back

the shell will be its home.


Bounded by a semolina lump,

by the border of mom’s

skirt, by the cup cracked

along the rose,

by the flower

given to mom not by her husband,

bounded by mom’s husband

while he is bounded by the memory

of the chicken’s head which his father

cut off in front of his eyes, how

can you not be bounded after that, what

if all of a sudden it’s you who

or it’s your head

bounded by an egg,

by chain-link fencing,

by a grain, by vertex,

by a father’s name,

by mom’s lump,

the border

of her skirt…

Now that you know

what kind of beast I am,

set me free

or run.



Hanna Komar is an award-winning poet and translator based in Minsk, currently working at the Belarusian PEN Centre. She has published two poetry collections (Fear of Heights in Belarusian and a bilingual collection Recycled) and a collection of Belarusian translations of Charles Bukowski. Hanna writes in Belarusian and translates her texts into English.

Source: The Blue Nib Literary Magazine

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