Anna Blasiak – Poetry


I stumble upon Elsa’s blond perm wig,
her red lipstick and wooden leg.
I walk past a jar with pickled Ma Petite.
This is home.

I am the third Siamese sister
to Bette and Dot.
My sink is blocked
with shaved-off beard, like Ethel’s.

I am a permanent resident of Jupiter,
a regular freak.
I wear a suit and eye-shadow
in David Bowie blue.

Here all talk is Meep,
all talk is throwing daggers,
pinheads end up in Briarcliff
on the other side of the story.

And only in the afterlife
life goes on on Mars
and wooden limbs
grow back.




I am a hammock hung in a small garden
between two wooden poles
erected at opposite ends.

I blush all orange and grey,
tightly hugging two metal hooks,
rubbing them with black rope.

I swing back and forth
gently (or not),
sometimes nauseatingly.

I get wet with the rain
or with water from the hose.
I like brushing against the potted mint.

Or sage.
I can be tricky to get into,
even trickier to get out of.

I am a cocoon
padded with blankets and cushions,
cosy and stifling.

Come in to me,
be in the sun and out of the sun.



Ma Femme à la chevelure de feu de bois
André Breton

Mans vīrietis ar jūras acīm rietā
Anna Auziņa


My one with the skin of burnt caramel
With skin like hot sun
Watched from under a wide-brimmed hat
Tasting of salt
My one with a soul of a lizard
Flickering between light and shade
Always evasive, always ahead
My one whose palms are wide wide worlds
Across whose palms ships sail
Along whose palms maps are written
My one with hair of opposite
With hair that uncoils surprises
With hair plaited with light
My one whose cheeks capture open water
With waves breaking
Brimming with fish
My one whose nape is like liquorice
And whose nose is a sleigh
Whose shoulders are ancient banana plantations
And coconut palms
My one whose thighs are books of secrets
Whose knees always smile
And whose shins never go to sleep
Whose ankles are not anchors
And neither are they flapping flags
My one with belly button which smells of beginning
Whose stomach heaves salt like a shore
My one whose breasts are a clearing in the woods
Whose breasts are sweet smoke
Whose eyelashes are waterfalls
Whose waist is a silverfish
And morning shower
My one whose back is a slide
Whose buttocks are a watermelon halved
Whose legs are gentle breeze
Whose arms are both foxes and their lair
Whose feet are swallows
Whose hands are moths
With water humming from them
Whose fingers are sweet ice-cream
And whooshing grass
Whose nails are smooth pebbles
And ticking bombs
My one whose children are born at a shutter speed
Who is a shutter
Throat filled with coffee
Filled with cigarette smoke
My one, camera-poised
My one, on hold
My one in the sand the far the sunglasses
My one gusted
I watch


The European Literature Network

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