He broke up the sky on the square and gave it like bread crumbs to birds. Then he cut it in pieces and threw it to the beggars, the crazies, the blind, and their companions. But I got an end, smashed like a cup thrown to the ground, lying on its back like a wounded soldier, uncomplaining, as a harem wife hiding her gaze behind a black veil. The plains' bed is spread with houses, and everyone beneath it ages like a slave chained in bondage; save his high-cheek-boned face. Tensing my voice I started to refuse my free portion. But I stayed mute, the sky's mouth was filled with lead.
From A Voice: Selected Poems by Anzhelina Polonskaya. English translation by Andrew Wachtel, copyright © 2003 by Northwestern University Press. Reprinted by permission of Northwestern University Press. All rights reserved.