Three poems from the cycle “Vacate the Premises”
by Iryna Starovoyt
Translated from the Ukrainian by Grace Mahoney
In this airplane I fly with Fear and Hope.
Young Fear is already six,
he covers his ears
and makes an awful grimace.
The nervous stewardess
hands us sticks of gum.
—Don’t be afraid.—I say to her.
You might scare him.
He fears those,
who fear him.
The earth watches as we gain
altitude, as we drift away.
What was solid and firm
becomes a v o i d o f n o t h i n g .
Beneath us lies the airport’s skeleton.
Down there are people who could still be killed,
though it’s been some time since planes flew here.
Hope needs more oxygen.
She presses the button with the air mask.
Nothing happens.
Only the stewardess comes
up the narrow isle
angered by this childish prank.
—Yes, she is my younger sister.—I say.
She has trouble breathing
air that has all been exhaled.
You don’t have anything fresher?
—You want to open a window?—
asks the stewardess.
Hope’s eyes grow round
and her skin changes shade.
The button lights up greenish-yellow.
Through a plastic cup of undrinkable water
I see beads of oxygen.
—Every third.—I say to Hope.
—We’re beyond science now.—
little sister responds.
—Our only salvation
is to expect none.—
Someone in the cockpit
speaks over the radio,
switches on the landing signal.
Having gathered my wounded and killed,
in this paper airplane I fly without fear or hope.
***
They will come to clean the house after me, as after the deceased.
First, they fog up and wipe the mirrors.
Then they scrub fingerprints from the sink and the toilet.
Take the souvenir magnets from the fridge.
Is it #Betrayal or #Victory?
From my modest drawers they shake out papers and notebooks.
They smoke on the balcony, while investigating
the issue of wasp nests and ants. They burn
my photos and documents. They catch me
red handed in my love affair
with old furniture: the armchair, creaky but faithful,
a closet that knew my smell,
a patient kitchen and writing desk,
who have not yet forgotten me.
New tenants will sit on my couch, cuddle each other.
The woman is beautiful, pregnant.
They will drink tea from my cups, will light my candles.
Only Ursa Major, the Great Mama Bear, asks:
Who’s been sleeping in my bed? Something’s not right,
what’s gone wrong here…?
***
On Lesbos (Lemnos, Chios)
someone light-skinned from a distant country,
lies on his stomach and looks towards Turkey,
wonderous stones are cast along the gentle shore,
while on the horizon the sea rocks fishermen and seasonal tourists.
Here is the Aegean shore, here is where Priam’s children began
to swim. Their islands like boats in a regatta.
Genes flow down the current—to the Byzantines, the Ottomans, the Greeks.
Someone light-skinned is naturally interested
in local antiquity, applies protection from the overactive sun, bathes his children,
takes them from the water against their will, wildly
splashing in the twilight.
The beach empties.
Someone dark-skinned sails from the other side, all night. As long
as the darkness is thick, the sea is calm, and the flasks are full of fresh water.
A fleet of inflatable dinghies and sunken cheeks.
From what kind of Iliad, from what sham Odyssey are these reflective vests?
The sun rises over Lesbos.
The helicopter already sees them, approaches, takes photos for evidence.
Don’t cry, son,—says his crying father.
Whoever sails this sea becomes a great hero.
You will grown strong, Qasim.
You’ve learned to cast your hands over the waves to protect us all.
Riam from Damascus worries she will forget the name of the camp where she was told to go.
Moria, Moria, Olive grove,—she murmurs in steady exhalations.
There’s no return to native shores while all are forbidden.
At seven, Qasim hasn’t seen life before war, only death.
Write this in sapphic stanzas on the gridded fencing of the Moria refugee camp,
next to the human rags hung after washing,
next to the mosque in a tent.
Moria, Moria, Olive grove,—someone dark-skinned helps them from the water,
tired border guards take them one by one
splashing in the twilight.
He calls the emergency service for the island of Lesbos.
We’re here—in Arabic and repeats in Greek: μόλις φτάσαμε.
Now, gather courage and pierce our boats.
IRYNA STAROVOYT is a poet, essayist, and Associate Professor in the Department of Cultural Studies at Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv, Ukraine. Starovoyt’s books of poetry include No Longer Limpid (1997), and The Groningen Manuscript (2014).
GRACE MAHONEY is the translator of Iryna Starovoyt’s A Field of Foundlings (Lost Horse Press, 2017). Mahoney is also the Series Editor of the Lost Horse Press Contemporary Ukrainian Poetry Series.